Zimbits Oneshots
by benjji2795
Summary: A collection of Zimbits (Jack Zimmermann/Eric Bittle) fics; characters are from the webcomic Check, Please! by Ngozi. Each chapter is a oneshot fic and contains the summary of it.
1. Traitorous Hickeys

**Summary:** _"Is—is that a hickey I see?" Shitty smirked._

 _"Uhhh. It's not—I didn't—," Jack stammered and all the words he'd ever learned somehow had disappeared from his brain. That was not the response he was expecting. He was expecting a chirp, not—well,_ that _._

* * *

 **A/N:** _So um hey, this is my first work I've ever written for Check, Please! I've been writing a long time, but this webcomic actually is probably what I've been most excited to write for in a while, so I hope this turned out okay..._

 _This fic is loosely based off an fic I wrote a couple months ago for Jude and Connor on The Fosters, called that I thought would be easily adaptable._

 _Unbeta-ed...apologies for any mistakes._

 _Also, sorry the title sucks, titles aren't really my strong suit._

 _Please leave your thoughts on how you thought I captured the characters and any ideas you might have for future fics. I hope that y'all will be seeing me around a lot more after this :)_

 _Originally published on AO3 and tumblr December 8, 2015_

 _Originally posted on as an individual fic, but now moved to this combined oneshot fic posting_

* * *

Okay, so this may have been the first morning it had ever happened, but Jack was fairly certain that he was never going to tire of waking up to a headful of blond hair in his face. Or the hand tangled in his. Or the warmth cuddled up against him, the curves of Bitty's small body fitting against his own like they were perfectly made for each other.

Jack sighed contentedly, thinking about how the night before had played out like a dream. Well, it was really mostly a blur, lost somewhere in the haze of a couple beers, but what he did remember was having Bitty lean up close to him, laughing at some lame chirp Jack had thrown at him, followed by his body reacting before his brain could have time to think about it or question the action. His lips connected with Bitty's and everything fell into place from there, the plane finally coming in for a landing after nearly two years of circling. That was the part that he knew for sure had played out like a dream. The rest, he assumed, had to have gone at least as well because here he was, waking up in Bitty's bed instead of his own.

"Morning," Bitty mumbled, breaking Jack from his thoughts as he loosened Jack's arms and turned over so they were face to face. Jack gave a low "hmm" in reply, brushing Bitty's hair off his forehead and leaning in to gently kiss him, reveling into how Bitty hummed and leaned into the touch, smiling into the kiss.

"I'm not dreaming, right?" Bitty asked, groggily opening his eyes to look at Jack and pinching the skin on his arm for good measure. Jack cocked his eyebrows and chuckled.

"You're the one who just pinched their arm, you tell me," Jack grinned, chuckling more heartily when Bitty groaned and rolled his eyes.

"If you ever want this to happen again Mr. Zimmermann, there is going to _have_ be a rule against you chirping me when I'm barely awake."

"Okay fine," Jack said, throwing a hand up in mock surrender and tossing the blankets off them in the process. Bitty grumbled and grabbed his wrist, pulling it back down and guiding Jack to snake his arm around his torso again. Jack caught a flash of a small red mark where Bitty's neck and shoulder met, but then Bitty was burying his head into the crook of Jack's neck and the thought quickly slipped away.

They lay there for a while longer, but Jack started feeling restless. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk that the rest of the Haus would catch them. Not that Jack intended to keep this from them for very long, he just wanted time to work this out with Bitty first before the rest of the guys would inevitably, obnoxiously, intrude.

Carefully, Jack extracted his limbs from Bitty and moved to stand up.

"Jaaaaaaack," Bitty whined, pawing at Jack in an attempt to pull him back onto the bed.

"I'll see you in the kitchen," Jack whispered, placed a gentle kiss on Bitty's forehead and headed out into the hallway, tiptoeing his way around the creaky floorboards so as not alert anyone he was up.

Jack padded into the kitchen, setting to work making a cup of coffee. It was a Saturday, and the fact that he was up before noon (or at least, he assumed it was before noon; he hadn't checked the time before he came down) already assured that he was the only one in the Haus awake, something he was glad for on this morning of all mornings. So when Jack turned around to find Shitty standing in the kitchen entryway, he nearly had a heart attack.

"Morning Jack," Shitty mumbled, pawing around the cupboards for a mug to pour some coffee into when the pot finished brewing. "Haven't you ever considered sleeping in on a Saturday for once?"

 _Today was the first time I've considered it in a long time_ , Jack mused to himself.

"Not really," was how he actually answered Shitty, sliding into a chair as he waited for the coffee maker to finish.

"You and your old man sleeping schedule," Shitty yawned, shaking his head exasperatedly. "You need to fucking learn to live a little."

"You say as you happen to be up at the same time as me," Jack chirped. Jack watched as Shitty searched his brain for a comeback, groaning internally when his eyes went wide. Whatever Shitty was going to chirp in reply, Jack probably didn't have a retort. He was too tired and hadn't had enough coffee yet.

"Is—is that a hickey I see?" Shitty smirked.

"Uhhh. It's not—I didn't—," Jack stammered and all the words he'd ever learned somehow had disappeared from his brain. That was not the response he was expecting. He was expecting a chirp, not—well, _that_.

"So that's where you disappeared to, you motherfucker!" Shitty shouted, walking over and clapping Jack on the back. "I knew you wouldn't skip the party to celebrate our fucking NCAA championship without good reason!"

So he had a hickey, one that Bitty definitely gave him. They were definitely going to have to talk about that (not because Jack didn't like it; in fact just thinking about it made him shiver), as in the future, walking around with hickeys was going to force Jack to face a lot of questions he'd rather avoid. But there was nothing he could do now except damage control and run interference to keep them from suspecting Bitty had any part in it.

"Woah, bro, is that a hickey?" Ransom asked, sauntering into the kitchen with Holster right behind him, breaking a moment of silence where Shitty had been staring at him with a smug smile.

"Bro, I think Jack got some action last night," Holster grinned, settling down into a chair on one side of Jack while Ransom took sat down on the other side.

"And without any help from us," Ransom continued.

"I don't need your help, I'm not completely incompetent," Jack mumbled, burying his head into his hands to hide his creeping blush, hoping that they would all ignore the burning tips of his ears.

"Brah," Shitty chided, chortling softly and patting Jack's shoulder condescendingly.

"What? I can, and I d—have," Jack retorted quietly, cursing his slip-up. They all looked at him wide-eyed, looking like they were ready to pounce on him, when thankfully he was saved by Lardo's sudden appearance.

"Nice hickey Jack," she commented casually as she strolled past and stood next to Shitty.

"It's not a hickey!" Jack blurted out.

"Who doesn't have a hickey?" Dex questioned as he and the other frogs entered the kitchen.

"Jack," everyone replied in unison.

Jack sighed, as almost the entire team was in the kitchen with him. He just prayed that Bitty stayed upstairs. They both were going to be done for if he did.

"So if it's not a hickey, where did you get that?" Shitty asked, staring Jack down with a twinkle in his eye, as if he knew what was going on (and, if the way he was staring at Jack when Ransom and Holster came in was any indication, he probably actually did).

"It was uh—," Jack paused as he racked his brain for things that made marks on skin similar to hickeys. His mental catalogue was coming up painfully empty though. He couldn't come up with a single explanation that might possibly save him.

"It could be like a bug bite or something," Chowder suggested innocently.

" _Bless your sweet baby heart_ ," Jack could almost hear Bitty saying in the back of his mind (because that was exactly what Bitty would've said if he were there).

"Nah bro, that's way to big to be a bug bite," Holster countered. Chowder shrugged as if to say " _I tried_ " and Jack nodded, flashing him a pained smile.

"So Jack, who's the lucky la—," Ransom began, pausing when Shitty narrowed his eyes at him. "Who's the lucky person?"

Jack pursed his lips and shook his head.

"I'm telling you, there isn't anyone. It's a bug bite, just like Chowder said," Jack said firmly in his captain's voice, hoping that his stern tone would get them all to stop talking about this.

"Uh huh, sure," half the kitchen replied with disbelief.

"Lord, if I had know y'all were down here having a meeting—"

"Bitty!" Ransom and Holster exclaimed, jumping up and settling in on either side of Bitty, placing a hand on each shoulder as they guided him in. Jack's head hung low, staring down at his shoes and avoiding Bitty's eyes.

"Surely he must have told you," Ransom began.

"So enlighten us Bitty; who is Jack getting action from?" Holster added, gently shoving Bitty down into one of the chairs beside Jack.

"I-I swear I don't know what y'all are talkin' about," Bitty stuttered, keeping his eyes averted from Jack, his drawl more pronounced than usual due to sleepiness and nerves. If the entire hockey team wasn't interrogating them, Jack would've found it incredibly cute.

"Oh come on Bits," Shitty urged.

"So are we all just going to ignore the fact that Bitty is wearing one of Jack's shirts?" Dex piped up from the corner of the kitchen.

"Oh g-goodness!" Bitty squeaked, nervously adjusting the oversized shirt. "There must've been a laundry mishap Jack, I'm so sorry!"

"Orrrrr, I have a better explanation," Shitty grinned, his eyes gravitating to Bitty's neck. Jack turned and saw the red mark on Bitty's neck (one that had been hidden under the shirt's collar before Bitty had adjusted it) at the same time Bitty saw the one on Jack's jaw. They met each other's eyes, staring at each other for a few seconds before the entire kitchen erupted into chaos as everyone put the pieces together.

Jack and Bitty both turned bright red, reaching for each other's hands under the table. Around them, they could see that Ransom was handing Holster a twenty, Shitty was mumbling something about how he never should've let Lardo talk him into $100 stakes, and both Dex and Nursey were both shoving bills into a smug Chowder's hands.

"Well, that wasn't how I had pictured us tellin' them," Bitty whispered.

Jack shrugged. "It could've been worse. We were going to have to tell them eventually. This was probably the least painful way to do it."

"Oh, by the way Bitty, did you notice that your bed squeaks?" Lardo inquired as she walked past, causing them both of them to blush bright red again as the team wheeled around to start chirping them.


	2. Merry Christmas Darling

**Summary:** _Bitty can't help picking up a few lines of the song currently playing, grimacing at the overt cheeriness of the song and its lyrics. He can hardly call it the "most wonderful time of the year" when he's faced with the prospect of spending the entirety of it without his boyfriend._

* * *

 **A/N:** _So I was listening to my Christmas music the other day while trying to think of ideas for a fic, and when I heard_ Merry Christmas Darling _by Carpenters and was struck by this idea. I hope it's not too terrible...I was going for fluff and I feel like I got something else instead...anyway, all comments about characterizations and story and such are greatly appreciated. Unbeta-ed, so apologies for any mistakes._

 _(Other song mentioned in the fic is_ The Most Wonderful Time of the Year _[my favorite version of the song is by Amy Grant])_

 _Originally published on AO3 and Tumblr December 11, 2015_

 _Originally posted on as an individual fic, but now moved to this combined oneshot fic posting_

* * *

 ** _December 22nd_**

Music played softly in the background as Eric flitted around his Mama's kitchen, trying to keep busy and bury all of his emotion in a mountain of flour, mounds of sugar and enough butter to fill a small bathtub when melted. It was turning out to be a difficult task, as every Christmas song that played seemed to be taunting him, screaming at him that it's Christmas and he should be happy, even though he really wasn't.

 _It's the most wonderful time of the year!_

 _With the kids jingle belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer!_

 _It's the most wonderful time of the year!_

Bitty can't help picking up a few lines of the song currently playing, grimacing at the overt cheeriness of the song and its lyrics. He can hardly call it the "most wonderful time of the year" when he's faced with the prospect of spending the entirety of it without his boyfriend.

Bitty jabbed at the screen of his phone, skipping ahead to the next song on his Christmas playlist.

 _Greeting cards have all been sent_

 _The Christmas rush is through_

 _But I still have one wish to make_

 _A special one_

 _For you_

Bitty stopped and sighed, leaning up against the counter as he listened to the soft piano, the easy, almost melancholy melody of the song and Karen Carpenter's smooth, soft voice.

 _Merry Christmas darling_

 _We're apart, that's true_

 _But I can dream, and in my dreams_

 _I'm Christmasing with you_

 _Holidays are joyful_

 _There's always something new_

 _But every day's a holiday_

 _When I'm near to you_

 _Oh the lights on my tree_

 _I wish you could see_

 _I wish it every day_

 _The logs on the fire, fill me with desire_

 _To see you and to say:_

 _That I wish Merry Christmas, Happy New Year too_

 _I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve_

 _I wish I were with you_

Bitty bit his lip, fighting back the pressure building behind his eyes. He knew that being with Jack was never going to be easy, but sometimes the feelings of loneliness hit him harder than others. Christmas was a time for family, and even though his parents and cousins surrounded him, his arms ached to be around the most important member of his family, who was instead, painfully absent.

 _The logs on the fire, fill me with desire_

 _To see you and to say:_

 _That I wish you Merry Christmas, Happy New Year too_

 _I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve_

 _I wish I were with you_

 _I wish I were with you_

 _Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas_

 _Merry Christmas, d_ _arling_

It happened before he could stop it, the tears starting to roll down his cheeks while the last strains of the song echoed wistfully in his ears, as he thought about Jack and how he hadn't seen him in a week and a half and how much it hurts they can't be together on Christmas. Missing Jack had never hit him this hard before, but then again, in the years they'd been together, they'd never had to be apart on Christmas before.

"I know Dicky," his mom murmured, putting a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry Mama," Bitty said, his voice shaking as he turned to give her a weak smile. He's glad he's here with his parents at least. That was better than spending Christmas in his and Jack's apartment alone.

"Don't be honey," she answered. "I understand how hard this is."

"Yeah it is...but I'll be fine."

Are you sure?"

"I—," Bitty began before the oven timer went off and provided a convenient interruption. Managing a much more convincing smile than a moment ago, Bitty shrugged off his mother's arm and quickly busied himself in baking again. He waited until she was out of sight to grab his phone, pulling up the song on Youtube and texting the link to Jack along with a simple _I miss you 3_. That, combined with the music and lyrics of the song, could express what he was feeling now better than any of his own words ever could.

* * *

Jack was beyond frustrated with the NHL scheduling committee. Had been since the schedule came out over the summer. He was sitting on one of the beds in his hotel room, stewing over the fact that this is where he was going to have to spend Christmas, since they were told, in no uncertain terms by team management, that they were not to leave the immediate area. So he was being forced to spend Christmas in some cold, impersonal hotel, more than a thousand miles away from where he really wanted to be.

"Hey, a couple of the guys are going out for drinks. You wanna come?" one of his teammates and his roommate on road trips, Teddy, said, peeking his head through the door of their room.

"Um, no thanks," Jack replied. He'd much rather use this free time to call Bitty.

"Alright, suit yourself," Teddy shrugged. "Say hey to Bits for me."

"Will do," Jack mumbled distractedly, pulling out his phone as the door shut. When he looked, he can see that there was already a text from Bitty: a link to a song, and _I miss you 3_

Jack clicks the link and swallows hard. _Merry Christmas Darling_ by Carpenters. He hadn't heard this song in a long time, but there was a faint memory hidden in the back of his mind of when he was young and his mom was listening to it by herself on a Christmas Eve and crying on the couch. He thought about Bitty, listening to this song and maybe crying in his bedroom of his parent's house and suddenly Jack's chest felt very tight.

While he was lying there, thinking about Bitty, his frustration fading into almost downright misery, his phone rang and he didn't hesitate to pick up immediately.

"Hey."

"Jack, honey?"

The fact that it wasn't Bitty's voice and was actually his mom's answering him instead made Jack sit up quickly and grip his phone tighter.

"Is everything alright Mrs. B—Suzanne?" Jack asked, his hands beginning to tremble ever so slightly.

"Yes sweetheart, everything's alright," Suzanne said softly. "He just misses you terribly."

Jack exhaled in relief and then replied. "I really miss him too." He was biting his bottom lip and clenching his fists, fighting to keep his composure while he was on the phone with Bitty's mother. "But I have a feeling you didn't call me just to tell me that."

"No, I sure as heck didn't," Suzanne chuckled slightly. "Poor thing, spendin' most of his time in the kitchen, bakin' the sadness away."

"Oh um," Jack swallowed, having a hard time getting a response out around the lump that had formed in his throat

"Dear, are you sure there isn't any chance you can come down here for Christmas?"

"I don't—"

"You don't have any strings you can pull?"

 _Now there was an idea._

"Um, I think there might be something," Jack answered hesitantly. "I uh—give me some time and—yeah. Just don't tell Bitty anything in case it..."

"My lips are sealed honey." Suzanne said, and Jack could hear the smile in her voice. "Let me know if you'll be needin' a ride from the airport."

"Okay, I will."

"Hopefully we'll be seein' you soon."

"Yeah," Jack acknowledged, hanging up and then immediately pressing the phone back up to his ear.

"Papa?"

"Hey son, what's up?"

"Do you think you could do me a favor?" Jack requested softly. His whole life, Jack had hated the idea of using his dad's name to get what he wanted. But when he was facing the prospect of him and Bitty spending Christmas alone and miserable, there doesn't have any hesitation at all.

"Anything. What do you need?"

"I need—I need you to call the team and—and see if you can get them to let me come home for Christmas."

"I can do that but...just so I understand—you're not actually going to be coming to Montreal, are you?"

"No," Jack answered quietly.

"Bitty?"

"Yeah," Jack mumbled.

"Took you long enough to ask me," Bob chuckled.

"Well I don't like—"

"I know son," Bob said gently, and Jack can imagine his dad reaching out to grab his shoulder if he had been in the same room. "Your mother was never much for that either. Go ahead and get your flight and I'll take care of it."

"Thanks Papa."

"Don't mention it," Bob responded, and then hung up.

Once he did, Jack immediately texted Suzanne:

 _I'll be in on the first available flight after my game tomorrow_

As Jack waited for the reply, he pulled out his laptop and began searching for flights to Atlanta. They have an afternoon game so he should be able to fly out by 8:00. He saw that there was a flight for 8:10 and Jack doesn't hesitate to purchase a ticket. He won't be in Madison until very late then, but Jack was willing to deal with that if it meant he can spend Christmas Eve and Christmas with Bitty.

 _Wonderful. See you soon dear_

* * *

 ** _December 23rd_**

Jack was panicking just a little. He hadn't anticipated the game would go into overtime and then a shootout so he was being dropped off at the airport with just under 15 minutes left to make his flight. He was running across the terminal as fast as he can manage, before being distracted momentarily when his phone rings.

"Hello?" Jack answered breathlessly, slowing his pace to a brisk walk.

"Hey Jack."

It's Bitty, which, _shit_ , Jack doesn't know how he's going to explain that he can't talk right now. Jack really wants this all to be a surprise to Bitty.

"Hey, I—I can't talk—right now," Jack responds quickly.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry!" Bitty exclaims, trying to sound cheery, but Jack can hear the disappointment apparent in his tone.

"Yeah, I'm uh—out with the guys. I'll call you back later—when we get back to the hotel," Jack explained, hoping the background noise of the airport was enough to make his lie convincing.

"Yeah okay," Bitty replied. Jack pictured the slight frown on Bitty's face and had to work very hard to convince himself not to tell Bitty he was on his way to Georgia right then and there. "I love you," Bitty added tersely.

"Love you too, bye," Jack said rapidly, hanging up the phone as he entered the line for security.

* * *

Bitty had been hoping that he'd have the chance to talk to Jack for a while. Jack wasn't usually one for going out after away games, often opting to call or Skype instead. And given the situation, Bitty assumed that Jack would be extra eager to stick to that routine. Jack had never responded to his text the day before and was out partying with the team now, so Bitty guessed that he was doing just fine facing the prospect of spending Christmas (Eve) without him while he was miserable (which was starting to piss him off).

Bitty's mom invited him to come out of his room to watch a Christmas movie with them, but Bitty decided he'd rather stay in his room and—he wasn't moping, he was just—okay, he _was_ moping, but he also didn't care. Bitty tossed on one of Jack's sweatshirts, pulling the hood around and shoving it in his face, breathing in the smell of Jack as he climbed into bed, clutching Señor Bun close to his chest in the absence of having Jack to wrap his arms around.

It didn't take him long to drift off to sleep and when he woke up, it was close to 11:30. Checking his phone, Bitty heaved out a long sigh when he saw there wasn't a missed call while he was sleeping. Jack still hadn't called. Did he not miss him at all? Rationally, he knew that wasn't true, but in the face of overwhelming emotion, it was hard to think rationally. He was just about to angrily toss his phone aside when it rang.

"I really miss you," Bitty said with a slight edge when he answered the phone, knowing that only Jack could be calling him at this time of night.

"I miss you too Bitty," Jack answered, and Bitty felt his small flare of anger grow, because it sounded like Jack was smiling as he said it. Here he was, miserable, and Jack was just hunky-dory.

"It doesn't sound like it," Bitty spat.

"There's a good reason for that," Jack replied, and it sounded like he was smirking. Bitty opened his mouth to spit venom at Jack again when his bedroom door opened. "It's hard to miss you when you're right here in front of me."

"Jack?" Bitty questioned, rubbing harshly at his eyes as his mouth dropped open.

"Yeah," Jack smiled, walking over to the bed and sitting down on the edge.

"But I thought you said you couldn't—"

"I called in a favor," Jack shrugged.

"Meaning?"

"I called my dad," Jack answered sheepishly, and even though it was dark, Bitty knew he was getting one of the rare Jack Zimmermann blushes.

"But—but you hate using your dad's name to get things. Why would you do that for me?"

"There isn't much I wouldn't do for you Eric," Jack whispered, leaning in to kiss him softly. Bitty reached up and snaked his arms around Jack's neck, pulling him down onto the bed.

"I love you," Bitty said, because that was the only thing that came close to expressing everything he was feeling.

"I love you too," Jack sighs, sinking into the mattress next to Bitty. Jack quickly shucked his shoes and pants, turning over to let Bitty curl up into him. "Merry Christmas, darling," he added. Jack had never used that kind of term of endearment toward Bitty before, but it was something that just fit, considering that if it hadn't been for the song, Jack probably wouldn't even be here right now.

"You actually got my text," Bitty said, sounding thoroughly surprised.

"Yeah. That was the whole reason I came down here."

"It really means a lot to me."

"I—that song made me remember my mom spending Christmases' alone when I was a kid and—I just couldn't stand the thought of making you do that."

Bitty opened his mouth like he was going to reply, but instead he leaned over and kissed Jack.

"Merry Christmas Jack," he said before snuggling his head into Jack's chest, sighing contentedly. Jack placed a gentle kiss on the top of Bitty's head before closing his eyes, glad that he made the decision to come here instead of being at the team hotel.


	3. When Everyone Else Knows Before You

**Summary:** _Sometime in between Winter Screw and Epikegster 2014, Jack figures a few things out (with a little push from the rest of the Haus)_

* * *

 _Originally posted in four parts on AO3 and Tumblr on January 4, 2016_

 _Originally posted on as an individual fic, but now moved to this combined oneshot fic posting_

* * *

Bitty woke up the morning after Winter Screw with a pounding headache (no surprise considering how many times one of the many flasks the hockey team had been carrying (and yes there were _many_ ) had been passed his way). Sunlight was streaming into his room, persistently knifing through his closed eyelids to beat against his retinas, causing the pounding in his head to intensify. Bitty groaned and rolled out of bed, stumbling into the hallway in search of painkillers (and a strong cup of coffee), but was distracted by distinct sounds coming from Jack's room that could be interpreted as—well, if Bitty didn't know Jack any better, he definitely could've assumed something. He stepped closer (all the while scolding himself for the mental images his brain was conjuring up from those noises).

"DEETS DEETS DEETS DEETS!" Shitty started chanting insistently (and also suddenly), causing Bitty to jump backwards. There was more grumbling followed by a long silence.

"I have no deets, man," Jack finally said quietly, and Bitty could very clearly imagine Jack's lips firmly pressed together, curving downward in a frown as he shrugged and gave Shitty his answer.

"Don't give me any of that dumbass Zimmermanns don't kiss and tell bullshit," Shitty replied, sounding fondly exasperated. Bitty had to try very hard not to giggle at Shitty's tenacity on the subject; he simply couldn't imagine Jack ever giving anyone "deets" (or ever having done something deets worthy, for that matter).

"Get out OF MY BED," Jack pleaded, raising his voice slightly. There was a thump followed by a groan and Bitty assumed that Jack probably pushed Shitty off the bed. Shitty's time on the floor was apparently short lived, because almost immediately Shitty was murmuring again.

"No one will do this with you in the NHL…shhh don't fight ow ow ow…why do you resist my snuggles?"

Bitty shook his head and headed down to the kitchen. A year and a half of observation and he was still no closer to understanding Jack and Shitty's friendship (even Ransom and Holster didn't have a clue) and Bitty guessed that maybe some of the best things in the world just couldn't be explained.

* * *

"Okay, but for real, what actually fucking happened?" Shitty pressed, reluctantly climbing out of Jack's bed and settling into the armchair across from it.

"We went to the dance, I walked her home. That's it. I don't know what else to tell you," Jack replied tersely.

"Jesus fucking Christ Zimmermann," Shitty groaned, throwing his head back against the chair in exasperation. "How long is it going to take for you to get your head out of your own fucking ass?"

Jack blinked, staring at Shitty blankly.

"I'm just saying, I thought Winter Screw would've spurred you to do _something_."

 _"Do something?"_

"Yeah, you need to either buck the fuck up and tell him about your feelings or move on."

"Him?"

"I am not here for this shit, Jack. You know who the fuck I mean."

"I—I really don't."

Shitty examined Jack for a moment before chuckling and shaking his head.

"Brah, this—this is a new level of oblivious, even for you, Mr. Hockey-Robot," Shitty remarked, standing up and slapping Jack on back.

"Shitty, what the hell are you talking about?" Jack questioned, looking at Shitty with his eyebrows cocked in confusion.

"Nah brah, you're gonna have to figure that out for yourself. I've already said too much."

Shitty sauntered back to his room through the bathroom and Jack paused a moment, wondering what Shitty meant by all that. Coming up with no explanation beyond "Shitty being Shitty", Jack stood up and headed down to the kitchen to get something for breakfast.

* * *

"Stupid Jack Zimmermann," Bitty muttered under his breath as he moved around the kitchen, getting ingredients together to make muffins for breakfast. Since he'd had some coffee and painkillers, he was now in a decent enough state to reflect on the night before while he tossed the butter, sugar and flour into a mixing bowl.

His night would've been perfectly lovely if not for one Jack Laurent Zimmermann. The rugby boy (Bitty had already managed to forget his name…or did he actually ever learn it? Whoops…) Ransom and Holster had set him up with had definitely been attractive, with good muscles and a very cute accent. He was funny and by all accounts, Bitty should've had a great time. He honestly should have been completely smitten with the boy, but by the end of the night, he hadn't even gotten the other boy's phone number or made plans to meet up again.

Rather than having a good time and paying attention to his date, he spent the entire night thinking about how his date wasn't like Jack, comparing every little thing he did to Jack, like how his eyes were hazel instead of icy blue, or how his shoulders were thin and not as well-defined. And on top of that, he also spent a lot of time staring at Jack longingly from across the dance floor, like some pathetic loser.

Stupid Jack Zimmermann with his dopey brilliant blue eyes and his incredible hockey butt and his dorky personality and his dumb little chirping smirk and—

"Stupid J—," Bitty started to mutter again when he turned around, quickly snapping his jaw shut when he saw that Jack was standing in the kitchen doorway, quietly watching him. Bitty had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed Jack.

"H-hey Jack," he stuttered, spinning around so that Jack wouldn't see his cheeks turn a dark shade of red (even though he knew the tips of his ears were turning red too).

"Morning Bittle," Jack murmured casually, reaching past him to grab a mug. "What are you making?"

"I hadn't decided yet. I was thinking something like coffee cake muffins might be good but Ransom and Dex absolutely hate those so I probably should just stick to something simple like blueberry," Bitty rambled, unnerved by Jack's appearance in the middle of his mental rant about him.

"Sure," Jack shrugged as he sat down at the kitchen table. "So you're not too hungover, eh?"

"Jack, honey, you know even if I was, I'd still be in here," Bitty laughed, quickly gathering the ingredients. "So how was your date?" Bitty continued (not that he really wanted to know how Jack's date went); he just needed something to talk about, something to distract him from his thoughts.

* * *

"Good," Jack answered simply. What was it with people wanting to know how his date went? First Shitty, and now Bittle? "You seemed to like your date, eh?" Jack commented quickly (to deflect attention away from him). From watching Bittle, he could see that he was smiling and it wasn't a stretch to say that he was having a good time (but wait, why had he been watching Bittle?).

"Yeah I guess," Bittle replied, mixing his muffins in what appeared to be an overly aggressive manner. "He was a nice guy, but I don't think it's going to turn into anything."

"That's too bad."

"He was just some guy Ransom and Holster set me up with. It's not like I was expectin' anything different," Bittle replied nonchalantly.

Jack snorted into his coffee just and Ransom and Holster walked in.

"Alright Bits, you gotta give with the deets bro," Holster declared loudly, tossing an arm around Bittle's shoulder.

"I don't know what y'all are expectin' me to say," Bittle shrugged, quickly scurrying out from under Holster's arm, abandoning his batter on the counter as he started inching his way towards the way out. "Y'all were watchin' me like a hawk all night, it's not like y'all don't already know what happened."

Jack felt a swell of— _satisfaction_ at that. He was watching Bittle all night, and he _knew_ nothing happened between Bittle and his date. Jack didn't trust the boy from the moment he showed up at the Haus, and it was definitely satisfying to know that he didn't get the chance to—well, now that Jack considered it, act like he was Bittle's date…which was a rather—strange way of looking at it, Jack thought. Very strange…

"Okay bro, we'll just have to try harder next time," Ransom said, and Jack felt as if he maybe missed some part of the conversation while he was in his own head.

"I'd really rather you didn't," Bittle chuckled nervously as he exited the kitchen.

"You're not getting out of this bro, not until we find you the perfect match!" Holster shouted, turning to wink at Jack before dragging Ransom out of the room.

"What the hell was that all about?" Jack muttered, taking his coffee and walking back up to his room, willing himself to forget about all the strange happenings this morning.

* * *

A couple of days later, Shitty unceremoniously burst into Jack's room (less than fully clothed, as usual), flopping down onto his bed uninvited as Jack sat at his desk, working on homework. Jack made no move to pay attention to Shitty, keeping his focus firmly on the paper he was writing.

"So have you figured it out yet?" Shitty asked when it became clear to him that Jack wasn't going to acknowledge him.

"Figured out what?" Jack answered, pretending not to know what Shitty was talking about, even though he very full well did. He'd thought about it some, sure, but not enough to come up with an answer, something he knew Shitty wouldn't be happy about. Jack hoped that by playing dumb, Shitty might leave him alone and not force this conversation to happen.

"Nice try, but you're not getting off that easy."

"Look Shits, I really don't know who it is that you think I like, and it's not really that important that I figure it out either," Jack sighed, putting down his pencil and spinning his chair around to face Shitty. Jack just figured that knowing who it was would make things more complicated for the both of them, and it would be easier if he remained blissfully unaware. It's not like he probably deserved whoever the guy was anyway; no one would want to be the boyfriend to a closeted future NHL player with no plans of coming out—possibly ever.

"You deserve it Jack, don't even think that you don't," Shitty said, startling Jack. It didn't matter how long they had known each other, it always shocked Jack that Shitty could sometimes see right into his head and know what he was thinking (which he did fairly often, if Jack were to think about it).

"Shitty—"

"Jack, don't talk, just listen. You really deserve to be happy, whether you think you do or not," Shitty interrupted. "I know that getting to the NHL and playing professional hockey will make you happy, but that's not all there is out there. Happy isn't the same as feeling complete, and I don't think that you would feel complete if you were alone. Not even asexual-aromantic people are happy being alone, for fuck's sake! So just—take this chance and do what you want, not what you think you should do or what you think you deserve."

"Shitty," Jack sighed, speaking softly as he dropped his head towards his chest. "Whoever it is, I can't put them through all the shit that's going to come with me being an NHL star. I don't—I don't even know if I can ever come out."

"Whoever it is will be a grown adult, capable of making their own decisions," Shitty countered. "If they want to deal with that, then they will. You shouldn't—no, you _can't_ make that decision for them. So do me a huge fucking favor and just give it some thought and stop writing this off."

Without another word, Shitty clapped Jack on the back and then turned and walked out of the room. Jack turned back to his desk, trying to get back to his homework, but he just couldn't focus, Shitty's words echoing around in his head.

Sometimes, Jack thought as he stood up to go down to the kitchen (where Bittle hopefully was), when he listened to Shitty speak, he wondered why Shitty wasn't studying to be a counselor or therapist. He certainly had a knack for sounding like that therapist Jack had back when he was in rehab.

"Oh Jack!" Bittle exclaimed warmly as Jack entered the kitchen, breaking Jack from his thoughts. "Your timing is just spot on! There's a pie finished cooling if you wanted to have some."

"Sure," Jack responded, feeling an easy grin creeping onto his face.

"It's maple crusted apple. I know that's your favorite," Bittle said, carefully cutting a slice and plating it for Jack. Jack smiled and mumbled thanks, sitting at the table and eating while Bittle continued to hum and bustle around the kitchen. As he ate, a million other things rattled around in Jack's head. Winter Screw. Shitty's words. Holster's wink. Wondering what it all meant, and who this mystery guy could possibly be.

The more he thought, the more Jack's heart rate started to quicken, and so he decided to instead focus on the things around him. Like the light streaming through the window over the sink, which was hitting Bittle's hair just right, turning his light blond into something more of a shiny gold, or the gentle splash of water while Bittle washed dishes, Bittle's broad shoulders shifting under his shirt as he worked, or the soft murmur of music filling the room, Bittle singing the lyrics softly as his hips swayed gently to the beat.

Seeing what was around him (seeing Bittle) helped Jack to calm down, erase some of his anxious thoughts from his mind. Even erase all of them, until it was just thoughts about Bittle. How Bittle always made him calmer, how he would always rather be somewhere where Bittle was than anywhere else, how he had this warm feeling in his chest whenever he was around Bittle, how attractive Bittle looked right n—

Oh. _Oh_.

Jack glanced down at his plate, which thankfully was mostly clear except for a few crumbs. He stood up and silently made his way out of the kitchen. He walked into Shitty's room and sat down on the floor.

"I'm fucked," Jack mumbled, burying his head in his shaking hands.

"Amen to that brah. I know you are, I've know you were for a while," Shitty hummed in agreement, plopping down on the floor next to him. "But for now, just breathe."

"Of all the people," Jack said after taking in a few unsteady breaths. "He's the one person who would get hurt the most by a relationship with me."

"Maybe so brah, maybe so…but he's like, totally fucking crazy about you, so maybe not."

"No I can't—I can't put him through that."

"Jack Laurent Zimmermann, what did I tell you not like fifteen fucking minutes ago?" Shitty scolded, narrowing his eyes on Jack sternly and forcing his chin up to look at him.

"That I can't make that decision for him," Jack replied softly, looking down towards the ground and avoiding Shitty's gaze.

"Right, so you're going to find your fucking balls, tell him how you feel, and let him decide what he wants to deal with," Shitty answered, giving Jack a glare that tried to say he had no other option; that he was going to do what Shitty said.

Jack nodded his head slightly and Shitty nodded back in satisfaction, standing up and walking out of the room.

* * *

Jack spent the next few days trying to figure out how to get Bittle—actually Bitty; he should probably actually start calling him Bitty, or Eric, or something far less formal than Bittle—to figure it out. Jack knew that he was terrible with words, and the odds that he could tell Bitty what he was feeling were quite slim. So instead he started hanging out with Bitty more, leaning in a little closer than before, chirping his more aggressively (and Jack hoped, more flirtily), hoping that would make his intentions clear.

But Bitty seemed to be missing it all; by the time Epikegster 2k14 rolled around, Jack was not any closer to declaring his intentions than Bitty was to figuring it. But when Bitty burst into his room the night of Epikegster, Jack sensed an opportunity and followed him down to the party.

"I cannot believe you, Jack! You were fixing to hide away in your room!?" Bitty exclaimed when the settled into an empty space at the party, sounding like he was already a couple of beers deep. "During what could very well be the last _ridiculous_ kegster of your Samwell career?"

"Well, you know, something always goes wrong during these parties," Jack shrugged. It's why he always avoided Haus parties, usually on a night like tonight especially. "And I think Ransom and Holster invited half of the colleges in Boston."

Recalling the last Epikegster, Jack launched into the story about the football player who puked in Shitty's room, delighting in the way Bitty seemed to be hanging on every word.

"Good Lord, I'm _tweeting_ that," Bitty said pointedly, pulling out his phone. Jack watched him in silent fascination, watching how his fingers nimbly flitted across the screen, typing ten times faster than Jack had ever been able to. "I'm surprised you're not chirping me for having my nose _buried in my phone_ ," Bitty added once he had posted the tweet.

"Well," Jack answered, seeing a chance to do something different that might get Bitty's attention. "If it's out. We should take a…'selfie' or something together."

"There it is," Bitty groaned, appearing to have taken Jack's words as a chirp.

"I'm serious!" Jack clarified. "You know. Like. 'Bitty's 1st Big Kegster.' You could put it on your blog. I mean, I don't get selfies, but you've told me that it's a 'thing' that everyone does so, why not?" Jack finished with a shrug.

"Sure—oh goodness!" Bitty stammered, motioning for Jack to lean over towards him. Bitty fumbled with his phone for a moment before turning to Jack and telling him to smile (which he obliged).

"Holy fuck Bits, what did you say to him?" Shitty shouted, coming up to them from seemingly out of nowhere. "I never thought I'd live to see the day where Jack Zimmermann would willingly take a selfie, period."

Jack opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by Shitty grabbing his arm and dragging him towards the kitchen, as Shitty dragged Bitty with his other hand and yelled countless exclamations about "Bitty, you glorious motherfucker!" that Jack didn't pay any attention to. Suddenly they came to a halt in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Dudes, you might want to look up," Shitty smirked, stepping out from between them and quickly hurrying away.

"Lord, what was that ab…" Bitty started, trailing off as he glanced up, seeing the mistletoe that someone had hung over the kitchen entryway. "Uh, there's no reason we have to—"

Jack interrupted Bitty before he could say anything more, afraid that if he let him talk, Jack would talk himself out of doing this. He swiftly leaned over and pressed their lips together, holding his breath as he did. Bitty was frozen, unmoving for what was the longest second of Jack's life. And then Jack could feel Bitty smile as he started to kiss back.

They kissed for what could've been an hour, or thirty seconds, or five minutes, but then Jack pulled away, grabbing Bitty's hand and pulling him upstairs to his room.

"Told you it would work," Shitty grinned at the rest of the gaping Samwell hockey team.

Series


	4. Careful What You Wish For

**Summary:** _Jack had certainly heard a lot of stories, having spent his whole life around hockey. But he always thought the stories were more like urban legends, like tales of babies who showed up on player's doorsteps because they "wished" for them, or players turned into animals for a day. The sorts of things Jack had heard about, but had never seen happen. He counted the idea of the Stanley Cup granting wishes whispered to it to be the same thing. Something that made for a great story, but couldn't possibly be real._

* * *

 **Notes:**

 _For moeblobmegane, based on a tumblr post they made._

 _This was a lot of fun to write and I think it turned out to be a pretty good story. I hope y'all enjoy it too :)_

 _Brief trigger warning: at one point, Jack does have a panic attack. It happens fairly early in the story, when Jack and Eric are in the kitchen of Jack's apartment._

 _Originally posted on AO3 and Tumblr on January 30, 2016_

 _ _Originally posted on as an individual fic, but now moved to this combined oneshot fic posting__

* * *

Jack smiled proudly at the expanse of silver rising up on the table in front of him. He'd done it. He'd won a Stanley Cup, in his _very first season_. The Falconers had won the series in only five games, and Jack had gotten the Conn Smythe for his dominating performance in the Finals. No one could ever say again he was just a big deal due to the reputation of his dad's name. He had finally proved that he was a great player in his own right.

Now he was out, celebrating with his team and Shitty, who was the only one who actually came to Game 5; the rest of the Samwell guys had seen Game 2, which happened to be the Falconers' only loss in the series, and Jack's superstition about it had made him ask them not to come. But that made the celebration feel incomplete—it just wasn't quite _right_ without all the rest of his Samwell teammates, especially Eric, there with him.

"Brah," Shitty said, bringing back a large pitcher of beer and two glasses. "You just won the Stanley Cup, stop looking so sad."

"What? I'm not—" Jack protested. He was relieved. He was feeling satisfied. Happy even. He didn't look _sad_!

"Brah, I can see it in your eyes," Shitty shook his head, filling up a glass and shoving it towards Jack. Jack sighed; Shitty had always been able to see right through him.

"Fine—it just would be nice for all the other guys to be here, eh?" Jack explained, running his thumb through the condensation forming on the outside of the glass.

"You mean it would be nice if Bitty was here," Shitty raised an eyebrow, looking at Jack pointedly.

"Well..." Jack flushed, taking a gulp of his drink while avoiding Shitty's eyes. Shitty was the only one who knew about his feelings for Eric, and sometimes (like now) Jack wished he didn't. But Shitty was 100% right; Jack wanted to be able to share this defining moment of his career with Eric (not that Jack necessarily thought that was a good idea). And it was Jack's fault he wasn't; he'd told the team not to come after they'd lost their only game of the series with them there. Of course they all understood and no one grumbled about it (hockey was only exceeded by golf in its number and oddity of superstitions).

"Hey, you could've gotten him a ticket if you wanted him here," Shitty shrugged.

"I know," Jack mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "But then the other guys would've wanted one and I just—I'll go and celebrate with the guys this weekend, eh?"

"You better tell Bits. He'll want to have a couple of pies ready for you," Shitty remarked thoughtfully. Jack's stomach growled at the thought; what he wouldn't give to have one of Eric's maple-crusted apple pies sitting in front of him _right now_. Along with the baker himself, sitting next to him, their thighs pressed together, leaning up against him, Eric already tipsy and vibrating from excitement and—

 _"_ Jesus _Zimmermann, get a_ grip _,"_ he silently scolded himself.

"What do you think about the Cup granting wishes?" Shitty asked abruptly, a seemingly random question, but Jack glared because this was Shitty and Jack _knew_ that it wasn't random in the slightest.

That being said, Jack had certainly heard a lot of stories, having spent his whole life around hockey. But he always thought the stories were more like urban legends, like tales of babies who showed up on player's doorsteps because they "wished" for them, or players turned into animals for a day. The sorts of things Jack had heard about, but had never seen happen. He counted the idea of the Stanley Cup granting wishes whispered to it to be the same thing. Something that made for a great story, but couldn't possibly be real.

"I don't think it's real," Jack shrugged as a few random people walked by and slapped him on the back in congratulations.

"Alright then brah," Shitty smirked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "If you don't think it's real, then why don't you do it? See what happens."

Jack huffed. Of course Shitty would dare him to do it. Shitty probably thought he knew exactly what Jack would wish for. Which—Jack stopped to think about it for a second and—alright, fine, Shitty _did_ know. But Jack said he didn't believe it—and he meant it. So he'd be willing to humor Shitty. It's not like anything _bad_ would actually happen.

"Okay," Jack said, standing up and grabbing the Cup, not exactly sure what to do with it while making his wish. He cradled it gently, running his fingers over the smooth silver as he considered his request. Obviously, there was only one thing he would wish for. "I wish Bitty was here, so I could talk to him and he could celebrate with me," he whispered, so quiet that he was really only mouthing the words. He paused for a second, thinking if there was something he wanted to add; and there was, but that was a much bigger wish and just to be on the safe side, on the off-chance that Cup wishes were real, he probably shouldn't say it, so he snapped his mouth shut and went back to staring at the Cup. After a second, when nothing happened, he snorted. "See, I told you Shits. It's just a legend."

"Hey, give it some time," Shitty chuckled. "What did you wish for?"

"Don't you know, if I tell you, it won't come true anyway," Jack chirped weakly, the tips of his ears getting hot. "Kinda ruins the point of the 'experiment', eh?"

"Okay fine," Shitty conceded with a groan. He narrowed his eyes, pointing a finger at Jack. "But don't think I'm not on to you Jack Laurent Zimmermann."

* * *

Jack groaned at the slight, but persistent pounding in his head he had when his alarm went off (he must have forgotten to turn it off). Okay, so he'd probably had one too many drinks the night before, but he _had_ just won the Stanley Cup, he was allowed. Alright, come to think of it, he'd probably had more than one too many, because he couldn't remember anything that happened after—after his Cup wishes conversation with Shitty and wow it had been a long time since—

His sheets suddenly rustled without him moving, and Jack stiffened up. It had been even longer since Jack had been drunk/high enough to bring somebody home with him. Jack slowly opened his eyes to see if he recognized who it was and— _shit_ , was that _Eric_?

The other figure sat up and yawned, stretching out and—fuck, that _was_ Eric.

"Uh," Eric gaped, his jaw dropping as his eyes fluttered open. He rubbed at them harshly and cast his gaze around the room. He jumped and rolled off the bed when his eyes landed on Jack, who was lying down, his head turned on the pillow to look at Eric. "J-Jack! I—no, I must be dreamin'. There's no way—"

"I—unless we're having the same dream, I think this is real," Jack interrupted, looking down at his hands and counting his fingers as he spoke. They looked normal and he had ten of them so at least _he_ definitely wasn't dreaming.

Eric pinched his arm. "G-goodness! I guess it's not. So—w-what in the world am I doin' here?"

"I-I don't know," Jack answered. He was just as shocked and bewildered that Eric had woken up in his bed. Sure, he'd won the Cup, but he didn't think he'd have been stupid enough to...well, whether he was stupid enough or not was honestly up for debate.

"I—" Eric paused, yawning and running a hand through his adorably—no, his hair was _just_ sleep-ruffled. It wasn't adorable...it _wasn't_. "Last thing I remember, I was celebratin' your winnin' with the boys at the Haus," Eric continued, still scouring the room wide-eyed. "And next thing I know, I'm wakin' up here."

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, thinking about the last thing _he_ remembered. He was talking about Cup wishes with Shitty, he was holding the Cup, he was wishing that Eric was— _merde_ , was Eric here because of his Cup wish?

 _"No, that's not right. Cup wishes aren't real Jack; get a hold of yourself!"_ Jack mentally scolded himself.

"Maybe you decided to drive or take a bus here?" Jack suggested out loud after a moment, pawing at his night stand for his phone. He probably just called Eric while he was drunk and asked him to come up to Providence to celebrate. It—that was kind of an embarrassing thing to do but—it was an explanation that made more sense than the Cup granting his wish.

"I—I don't remember," Eric frowned. "But I don't think I drove—I don't have a car."

"Right," Jack mumbled as he pulled up Eric's twitter page. He didn't have any recent texts from Eric (and he didn't know where his call log was) so Eric's Twitter was the next best bet to find what Jack was looking for. He scrolled through the tweets—there weren't many clues about _how_ he got to Providence, but Eric had definitely arrived sometime while he was still celebrating the win. There was even a picture of the two of them, arms around each other's shoulders as they stood smiling next to the Cup (he happened to be looking at Eric when it was taken and he was beaming, lovesickness all over his face and in his eyes). "And it was too late to take a bus," Jack added, checking the timestamps on Eric's tweets—which—that did not point in a promising direction.

"What? Then how did I get to Providence?" Eric paused and rubbed his eyes. "And why don't I remember?"

"I really don't know," Jack replied slowly. There was just nothing after his conversation with Shitty. "But—I don't remember anything either so..."

"Wow, I never thought I'd live to see the day when Jack 'Hides in His Room During Parties' Zimmermann got black-out drunk," Eric chirped.

"Don't chirp me, I won the Stanley Cup!" Jack responded indignantly. And he did so a little too loudly, because Eric winced.

"I must've been drinkin' a lot myself," he murmured, massaging his temples gently. "I think I need some coffee. And maybe some Tylenol."

Jack nodded mutely in agreement and swung his legs off the bed. He'd go get the Tylenol while Eric started the coffee. Eric had been in this apartment before; he'd _baked_ his kitchen before, he knew where it was.

Eric reached Jack's bedroom door just as Jack stood up, and Eric recoiled and stumbled back, like he'd just walked into a glass door he didn't realize was closed.

"What the—" Eric mumbled, rubbing his forehead gingerly. Eric walked back up to the doorway and—put his hand _flat_ on the air and leaned into his arm. Jack blinked; Eric stayed exactly where he was, as if there was an invisible wall occupying the open space of Jack's bedroom door. Jack's eyebrows shot up. First, Eric woke up in his bed with no recollection of how he got there, and now this. Somehow this whole situation was getting _weirder_.

"Bittle?"

"I—for some reason, I can't get out of your room," Eric said, changing his tactics, using his back to try and push; it ended up looking like he was just leaning up against nothing.

"Wha—" Jack frowned, taking a couple steps towards Eric. Eric went tumbling backwards, sprawling out on the hallway floor. "Are you okay?" he asked, quickly covering the last few steps to where Eric was lying.

"This keeps gettin' stranger and stranger," Eric remarked, nodding as he ran his hand over the back of his head.

"Yeah," Jack agreed, grabbing one of Eric's surprisingly soft hands and helping him to his feet (for a hockey player he had very few callouses and suddenly Jack was thinking about what it would be like to hold them as they walked down the street and— _no_ , stop that). Jack turned to go to walk to bathroom while Eric started off towards the kitchen, cautiously holding his hands out in front of him.

Jack didn't get very far though before he ran into an invisible wall; the same kind of thing that Eric just ran into—which...huh? He shuffled a couple steps to both his right and left, and found that, either way, he was still blocked from going any farther. He turned around to find Eric standing at the end of the hallway, just short of the kitchen.

"I can't go any farther than this," Eric explained, demonstrating by doing the same thing he did with his hand in the bedroom.

"I—yeah, this is far as I can go too," Jack replied, eyebrows knotted up in confusion. So—so the invisible wall moved with them? Jack stepped back towards Eric.

"Jack!" Eric gasped, wobbling precariously on his tiptoes as he nearly tumbled over again. They really should probably stay away from the edges of this—whatever it was.

"Sorry Bittle," Jack mumbled, crossing the rest of the way over to Eric, giving up on the Tylenol in favor of letting Eric get to the kitchen. "I uh—I guess this means that—" Jack paused; he had no idea what to call this. "—it moves with us."

"And what exactly is 'it'?" Eric asked, accepting the container of coffee Jack pulled down from one of the cupboards.

"I'm not sure," Jack shrugged, sitting down on a stool at the island in his kitchen. Jack couldn't deny that some kind of magic was involved in all this now. Which. Magic suggested this had something to do with hockey—the Cup— _his wish_. _And_ the other thing he'd been thinking when he made his wish. Not just the thing he'd whispered out loud. _Fuck_.

Jack inhaled sharply, paling as he felt the blood rushing from his face.

"Jack? Jack, sweetheart, are you alright?" Eric asked concernedly, his voice barely audible to Jack over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

He'd fucked up with Eric, _again_. He'd listened to Shitty and then did something so incredibly selfish and dumb and now—now, they might be stuck like this, _forever_. And oh God, how were they supposed to play hockey and how was Eric supposed to go to classes and—

"Jack!" Eric barked sharply. "Jack," he said again, he tone softer when he realized Jack was semi-aware and looking back at him. "Good, you're doin' good. Just look at me and breathe, okay darlin'?"

Jack took a shaky breath, focusing in on the gentle lines of Eric's cheeks and nose and eyes.

"Good, good. Now again," Eric instructed firmly, guiding Jack for several minutes, until he was breathing normally again.

"Sorry Bittle," Jack murmured as Eric walked over to pour them cups of coffee.

"Ain't nothing to apologize for," Eric answered, sliding a mug Jack's way. "And I get why you're worried, but it ain't a big deal. We'll figure it out. I'm sure this ain't permanent, ya know?"

Jack made a non-committal grunt. Maybe it wasn't, but Jack had a sinking feeling that it very well might be. But—he shouldn't tell Eric that. Not yet, anyway. There was still a chance that this wouldn't last and if he could, Jack really wanted to get out of this without telling Eric about the Cup or his wish—and by extension, his feelings.

Eric yelped, interrupting Jack's thoughts. Jack raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I have a final exam in an hour and a half!" Eric squeaked in panic, looking like he was about to dead sprint for the door. Jack reached out and gently grabbed his arm to make sure he didn't. He didn't need Eric knocking himself out by running into the "wall" too hard.

"Relax Bittle. I'll make sure you get there on time, eh?" Jack assured Eric gently.

"Oh Jack, that's awful kind but—"

"I kind of have to come," Jack interjected, wondering if Eric had already forgotten.

"Oh. Right," Eric nodded. "I forgot."

"Just—let me pack up a few things," Jack added after a beat.

Eric's eyebrows shot up, perplexed, and Jack tried not to get lost in the wide, brown expanse of Eric's eyes.

"It would make more sense for me to stay at the Haus with you for as long as this lasts," Jack explained simply, looking away quickly.

"Oh. Right," Eric replied again, following Jack when he started walking towards his bedroom.

* * *

The drive to Samwell was quiet; Jack was too busy trying to put a plan together to get through Eric's exams the next two days to chat, and Eric seemed to be caught up in thoughts of his own. They didn't say anything as they walked up to the Haus, sticking close to enough each other that their hands brushed every few steps, rather than testing the limits of 'it' (Jack still wasn't sure what name to give to what was happening to them). Jack didn't want any more moments where Eric was falling over because he shifted it, and he didn't want Eric running into it either.

"Hey Bits, what were you doing out so early—Jack?" Holster said, having been walking past the entryway as the two of them stepped inside.

"Hey," Jack answered awkwardly. There was no way he could feel anything other than awkward about this whole thing.

"Jack Zimmermann!" Holster said with exaggerated grandiose. "You just won the Stanley Cup! What are you doing here with us mere mortals?"

"It's uh—it's a long story," Eric remarked, tugging Jack towards the kitchen. "Jack'll tell you while I whip somethin' up for breakfast."

Jack nodded, scratching the back of his neck anxiously. Actually, it wasn't all that long of a story; it was very short without telling the parts about the Cup and his wish. It just—it was hard to explain in a way that was believable.

Jack sat down, as did Holster, who was looking at him expectantly. Jack sighed.

"Well, Bittle apparently came to Providence after the game? Neither of us know how but—his _texts_ —"

" _Tweets_ , Jack, _tweets_. Lord, you _have_ a Twitter, you should know this," Eric corrected, rolling his eyes fondly. Jack chuckled; he knew that, but it was fun to tease Eric that way.

"Okay, _tweets_ —very clearly show he was there," Jack continued, watching Eric's careful motions as he worked, putting together omelets.

"That's really bizarre bro—"

"There's more," Jack exhaled softly, holding his hand up to stop Holster from speaking. "There's some kind of—I don't know—I guess, _wall_ around us. We um, we can't get very physically far from each other."

"What?" Holster said, clearly not believing what Jack just explained.

"Here," Jack murmured, standing up and walking slowly toward the living room, while Eric stopped and watched with Holster. When Jack just about reached the point where he couldn't go any further, he came to a halt and reached out, finding the "wall" and leaning up against it. Holster's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open.

"You're—this can't—finals must have finally started fucking with my brain. Or you two are playing a joke on me," he mumbled, pulling his glasses off and checking them for smudges. Jack just shook his head slowly.

"Jack can't tell jokes, remember?" Eric chirped, turning back to the stove as Jack re-entered the kitchen. "And I certainly wouldn't be the one to come up with somethin' like this,"

"B-but hockey magic—I thought it wasn't real," Holster stuttered.

"I thought it wasn't either but..." Jack remarked, trailing off. All evidence suggested the contrary.

"So—so you two are like, stuck with each other?"

"For the time bein', I guess so," Eric said, setting a plate in front of Holster. "And it ain't like it's all that bad, bein' 'stuck' with Jack, but I don't think it'll last long."

Jack grimaced, something Holster (unfortunately) didn't miss.

"Jack doesn't—" he started to say before Jack kicked his shin under the table, glaring at him. Eric hadn't noticed what Holster had said though. Holster shot Jack a questioning look before changing course. "How did this happen?"

"I ain't really sure," Eric shrugged. "But I'm guessin' it has somethin' to do with Jack winnin' the Stanley Cup."

And well—that was pretty much exactly it—minus a few details that only Jack knew.

"Have you heard of Cup—" Holster started.

"Lord, I'm going to be late!" Eric cut Holster off, thankfully. Jack was pretty sure he was going to say something about Cup wishes and—well, that would have blown Jack's story for sure.

"I guess we're going, eh?" Jack said right on the heels of Eric's words, patting Holster's shoulder. A strange look crossed Holster's face, and Jack gave him his well-practiced neutral face in response. After a few seconds, Holster shrugged his shoulders and snatched up his plate, heading up the stairs.

"You better be bringin' that back down, Mister!" Eric called after him, and Jack snorted quietly.

"Oh hush you," Eric retorted playfully, motioning for Jack to come upstairs with him. "I ain't interested in spendin' any of my butter fund on buyin' new dishes 'cause all of 'em've disappeared."

Jack dropped his bag in Eric's room while Eric grabbed his backpack. Jack _wasn't_ watching as Eric bent over—but _damn_ , those squats he was still working on really seemed to be doing wonders for his—Jack pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. They had to be in close proximity for...God knows how long, those weren't thoughts he could be having—at least, not unless he wanted to do something incredibly dumb.

"Ready?" Eric smiled, standing in the doorway. Jack nodded and Eric waited until Jack was next to him to start walking.

While they were on their way to Eric's exam, Jack got a text from Holster:

 _What's going on that you don't want Bitty to know?_

Jack read it, and then promptly ignored it.

* * *

The professor ended up thinking Jack was a student, so he took the exam (sort of) while Eric did. Which was actually kind of okay; Jack actually knew a fair number of the answers, which he found extremely amusing. He never did finish, though. He ended up getting distracted by watching Eric take the exam instead.

He had a pencil tucked behind his ear and a pen in his hand while he sat on the front edge of his chair, hunched over the exam paper, his big brown eyes narrowed and his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in intense concentration. Jack had only ever seen Eric look like this when he was baking—minus the glint of panic in his eyes. That was there because Eric had always been terrible at preparing for exams.

Jack probably stared for too long (it was Eric's face; he always had trouble looking away), but he got away with it because Eric was so focused on his exam.

"So how did you think you did?" Jack inquired as they exited the lecture hall on their way back to the Haus.

"Terrible," Eric scowled, or at least as close as he could get to scowling; Eric's face had a way of softening the edges off his negative expressions. "But I had been plannin' on studyin' for it last night after the game."

"You say that like you actually would've studied," Jack chirped, nudging Eric lightly.

"Oh be quiet," Eric quipped. "You won the damn Stanley Cup, how was I supposed to even _think_ about studyin'?"

 _"Damn?"_ Jack chirped back. "That's some pretty strong language, Bittle. You sure your mother would approve of that?"

"The mouth on you Zimmermann, I swear! You better watch it Mister, or else you won't get that maple-crusted apple pie I was gonna make you," Eric retorted, without any heat behind his threat. Even so, Jack snapped his mouth shut with a smirk.

This—this is what Jack had missed the most during the season. The way they chirped each other—not to say that they hadn't when they Skyped and texted but—there was a different dynamic to it when they were together, face to face. Maybe it was because he could see Eric talking animatedly with his hands, or maybe it was because he could watch Eric roll his eyes when he made a particularly good (awful, if you asked Eric) chirp. But more than anything, Jack thought it was simply because he was near Eric and that—that's how Jack had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

The Haus was empty when they got back; everyone was either in an exam or at the library (or in their art studio, if you were Lardo). Eric immediately tugged Jack towards the kitchen and began getting ingredients together to make a maple-crusted apple pie.

"Don't you have more exams to study for?" Jack questioned, settling down at the table to watch Eric work.

" _Hush_ , it's not every day a former captain of mine wins the Stanley Cup," Eric rolled his eyes.

"Pretty sure I'm the only former captain of yours to win a Stanley Cup," Jack chirped, chuckling slightly.

"Jack Zimmermann, I swear!" Eric replied with fake exasperation. "Do you want me to make this pie or not?"

"Yes, but you still need to study. I don't want you failing any exams on my account," Jack frowned. Eric had probably already bombed one exam because of him. He didn't want him doing poorly on two.

"I won't Jack," Eric responded, softer and more reassuring. "But I suppose if it makes you feel better, you can be quizzin' me while I'm workin'."

So Eric told Jack what his next exam was, and Jack pulled out the book and quizzed Eric on the information (chirping him whenever the opportunity arose, of course).

Eventually the team came streaming back to the Haus, each member stopping short just outside the kitchen, staring for a few seconds before bursting out with congratulations for Jack winning the Cup. It didn't take long for everyone to abandon their studying in favor of celebrating with Jack. Had there not been an exam the next day, Jack had no doubt it would've turned into a kegster.

But it didn't, though the boys did get fairly drunk and rambunctious, and, thankfully, no one asked why he and Eric always followed each other around. Holster didn't ask either, too busy taking care of a near-catatonic Ransom, but his eyebrows shot up any time he met Jack's eyes, and Jack would quickly look away. Eventually, Holster sent him another text:

 _I KNOW Shits was there. Do I need to ask him what happened?_

Jack looked around; Eric was engrossed in a conversation with Chowder, and Holster was close enough that Jack could go over and talk to him.

"Just leave it be Holster, _please_ ," Jack asked pleadingly as he walked up to him.

"Not until you tell me what's really going on here," Holster replied, resolutely crossing his arms.

"It's—it was just—I did something stupid, okay?" Jack stuttered out in explanation.

"You know I've heard about Cup wishes before—is that what this is?"

"It's—yeah, kind of," Jack mumbled, going bright red.

 _"Jack—"_

"I didn't mean for this to happen!" Jack whispered harshly. "I just—I wanted him there. You know. To celebrate."

"Then how did _that_ happen?"

"I—I was—I might have been—thinking something about—I don't know—always wanting him by my side," Jack answered quietly, letting his head hang down towards the ground. "But I didn't say it out loud! I—I didn't think _it_ would be listening—you know, to my thoughts!"

"So," Holster frowned, glancing over at Eric. "You're telling me this might be permanent?"

"I—it might be?"

"Bro, you have to tell Bits," Holster whispered sternly.

 _"No,"_ Jack hissed. "No. Not—not until we know for sure if this is or isn't temporary."

"Fine. You get like, three days _max_ before I tell him what you did," Holster huffed, before his lips turned up into a smirk. "So Bitty, hmm?"

"I'm done talking about this," Jack murmured, shuffling back towards Eric, hating how hot his face felt. Holster grinned slyly, but at least he left him alone the rest of the evening.

* * *

The celebration wound down much faster than if it had been a kegster, so by 11:30 PM, everyone started heading out, and Jack used the commotion of people leaving to let to two of them slip upstairs together, unnoticed. They got ready for bed quickly and then went into Eric's room, shutting the door tightly behind them.

"Do you have a sleeping bag somewhere?" Jack inquired. He would've taken the couch, but the couch was too far away from Eric's room for Jack, which left Eric's floor as his only option.

"In the—" Eric began absentmindedly, his hand gesturing towards his closet, before he stopped. "Nuh-uh, no Jack, you are not sleepin' on the floor!" he continued indignantly, as if offended by the mere suggestion.

"You have exams. I'm not taking your bed," Jack replied, slipping a little into his captain's voice.

"Well I ain't lettin' you sleep on the floor," Eric argued, his face setting into a determined look; the one that Jack knew said you couldn't talk Eric out of anything.

"So—so we share," Jack answered, frowning as soon as the words came out of his mouth; being in the same small bed as Eric was an absolutely _terrible_ idea. But Eric—he wasn't going to let Jack do anything else now that he'd suggested it.

"Fine by me," Eric shrugged, hopping on the bed and scooching over to the wall as close as he could. Jack hesitated for a second, considering whether to argue about it any longer before following, carefully crawling under the covers. It was a tight fit, barely enough room for the two of them to lie on their backs, shoulder to shoulder.

"Night Bittle," Jack whispered, letting his eyelids slide closed.

"G'night Jack. Hopefully this'll all be over in the mornin'," Eric yawned, turning over onto his side, away from Jack.

"Hopefully," Jack echoed.

* * *

Jack woke up to Eric's alarm the next morning. The two of them had both ended up shifting during the night, and Jack had ended up curled around Eric, his frame pressed up snugly against Jack's chest. Which— _shit_ , that definitely counted under the category of _something stupid_.

He was insanely comfortable, but if he waited too long, Eric would wake up fully and realize that they were spooning. So Jack quickly but reluctantly pulled himself away from Eric, standing up and stretching out, while Eric stirred and groaned, hands raking over his nightstand in search of his phone.

"Mornin' Jack," he mumbled, silencing the alarm as he sat up and rubbed at his eyes.

"Hey Bittle," Jack said quietly, avoiding Eric's gaze and trying not to think about how they had ended up sleeping cuddled up to each other. Jack desperately hoped that the Cup magic had worn off, because if that was any indication, this was about to get messy for him.

"D'you think—" Eric started to ask, looking sleep-rumpled and very kissable (and _oh shit_ , was Jack in trouble if they had to do this much longer).

"Only one way to find out," Jack answered quickly to distract himself from his own thoughts, heading for Eric's bedroom door. He made it two steps down the hallway before—bam, there it was, the invisible "wall", still very much in place.

 _"Fuck,"_ Jack swore loudly.

"I take it that ain't good news," Eric sighed, peeking out around the door frame.

"No, it's not. I'm sorry Bittle."

"What'd I tell ya about apologizin'?" Eric replied, putting a hand on Jack's shoulder. "We handled it yesterday, we can handle it today."

 _"_ You _handled it yesterday,_ you _can handle it today,"_ Jack corrected silently. But to Eric, he just nodded and the two of them went down to the kitchen.

 _Maybe_ Jack could make it today without doing something stupid, like holding Eric's hand or kissing him. But Jack didn't have a whole lot of faith in his resolve if this stretched into a third day. He didn't want—okay, he wanted to just give in and do those things, but Jack knew he shouldn't. Eric deserved someone better than him, someone who could tell him how he felt and could hold his hand in public and kiss him and—not someone who made wishes to the Stanley Cup because he was too much of a coward to actually talk to him about his feelings. And someone who wasn't too much of a coward to actually come out.

"Still trapped here, huh Jack?" Holster asked, sauntering into the kitchen.

"I wouldn't use the word 'trapped'," Jack muttered. "Trapped" implied that he wanted to leave and—he really didn't. He didn't want to be anywhere else. "But yeah, I guess."

"Alright then bro," Holster shrugged, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "So are you two going back to Providence after exams are over today?"

"Oh, I hadn't even been thinkin' about that," Eric said, whisking together batter for what looked like pancakes.

"Well—" Jack started before being interrupted by his phone ringing. "It's George," he said looking at the caller ID. "I have to answer...hello?"

"Jack, I just received a call from an angry photographer who says you're an hour late for a shoot at the arena," Georgia said flatly, clearly unhappy.

 _"Merde,"_ Jack swore under his breath. With everything with Eric— he had meant to call the photographer to reschedule, but he'd just flat out forgotten. "Can—do you think you can convince him to reschedule for tomorrow?"

"Jack," George said warningly; Jack, in general, was always on pretty thin ice, PR-wise.

"I—I really can't—there's no way I can be in Providence right now," Jack stammered, struggling to explain. It's not like he could just say 'hey Eric and I are stuck together by an invisible wall so we can only be in one place, and that place can't be Providence right now'.

"You better have a really fucking good reason why," George quipped angrily.

"Bittle has final exams."

"What does Eric have to do with this?" George asked, clearly startled. Guess he had to explain but—how?

"I—we had something strange happen—I'm not sure how to explain."

"What, are you literally handcuffed to him?" George retorted sarcastically.

"Essentially, yes," Jack answered.

"Oh God, not the Cup magic thing again," George groaned like she knew this all too well (and Jack—he wanted to kick himself; why didn't he believe the stories again?). "Alright, I guess then we'll reschedule. But you better be there tomorrow. They need these shots for this month's cover of _Sports Illustrated_."

"Yeah, I will be George, thanks," Jack said, hanging up.

"I guess we're goin' to Providence," Eric chuckled, tossing a couple of pancakes onto Jack and Holster's plates.

* * *

After Eric's exams, they arrived in Providence without incident. That evening, Eric made dinner in Jack's kitchen, looking like it was fucking built for him, and Jack sat on a stool, watching, when really he wanted nothing more than to stand behind Eric, hands on his hips, his nose buried in Eric's hair and _fuck_ , Jack had never been so screwed in his life.

After dinner, they sat on Jack's couch, and Eric drank wine while they watched some show on Netflix Jack had never seen before. Eric sat next to him, leaning towards him slightly, laughing brightly at the actors, and Jack snuck glances at the way his whole face lit up when he did, thinking about how this was the perfect picture of everything Jack had ever wanted them to be.

The more wine Eric had, the closer he kept getting to Jack, and Jack ran out of couch to keep scooching away, so he ended up suggesting they go to bed, because every millimeter closer Eric came to him, the closer Jack was getting to doing those stupid things he couldn't do. _They'd be free of his wish tomorrow_ , Jack told himself.

Jack's bed was much bigger than Eric's back at the Haus, and Jack perched himself precariously on the edge, as far away from Eric as he could be. Eric was too drunk to notice or care, telling Jack goodnight as he clumsily patted Jack's chest. Jack ignored the way his skin prickled with electricity from the touch and paid no attention to the impulse to reach out and grab Eric's hand.

But his attempts at putting distance between them didn't do Jack a single bit of good, because the next morning he woke up before his alarm went off with his arms around Eric, the other boy's head snuggled into his chest. He wanted to crane his neck down and kiss of top of his head, but he didn't. Instead, he rapidly extricated himself from Eric and stood up, praying to whatever deity there was out there that this was going to be all be over. When he found nothing but the same, solid, invisible "wall", he took a deep breath, counting slowly to keep from losing it.

So they had to do this for another day. He wasn't going to panic. He was going to keep breathing, he was going to keep his distance from Eric today and tomorrow, everything would be back to normal and _shit_ , Jack was terrible at lying to himself. They were on day three; if this "magic" was going to—well, wear off, it would have by now. And looking at Eric's still sleeping figure, curled up under his sheets, Jack knew that he was too far gone to survive a third day of forced unusually close contact. He should tell Eric why this was really happening and—

Jack's alarm went off, reminding him of what they were doing this morning.

He'd tell Eric after the photoshoot (that was a lie, no he wouldn't).

* * *

"Jack," George said, greeting them outside the arena. Jack frowned; he didn't think she was going to be there. "Eric, it's great to see you again!"

"Likewise ma'am," Eric drawled, smiling as he shook her hand firmly. "Though I wish this was happenin' under different circumstances."

"Sometimes these things can't be helped," she shrugged, looking at Jack pointedly. Jack held her gaze for a second, and then blushed and looked away, sheepishly following them into the arena and down to the ice.

"You know if there are any skates I can borrow?" Eric questioned as Jack tossed on his jersey and tied up his skates.

"You shouldn't need them," George explained, quirking her head towards the ice, guiding them towards its smooth, glassy surface. "Once Jack's out on the ice, the circle will expand and you'll have a little more space."

"Alright," Eric replied, confused (like Jack) that she apparently had knowledge of how it worked. "I'll be right here when you're finished then."

Jack stepped onto the ice, bracing himself for when he hit the "wall". Once he was about halfway across the rink, and he still hadn't run into it, he quickly skated to where the photographer was standing, George unexpectedly trailing a few steps behind him.

"You can do this with him, if you want to," she said quietly. "PR is fully prepared to deal with whatever."

"What—"

"Jack, I know how this works," she rebuffed sternly. "I've been around hockey longer than you. I've been with other teams that have won the Cup, and I've seen things like this happen before. I know that this only happens when you _wish_ for it. And trust me, I can connect the dots."

Jack stopped on the ice and flushed just as the photographer started clicking the shutter.

"I really meant it when I told you this team would have your back, no matter what," George continued. "Marky has a boyfriend. I have a girlfriend. You wouldn't be the only one and this team wouldn't have any problem with it. So—if this is what you want, go for it. We'll be here for you."

She gave him an understanding smile and turned around, walking off the ice without another word.

Jack skated lazily around the rink while the photographer clicked picture after picture, his eyes occasionally darting over to Eric. Most of the time, Eric was looking at his phone, but a few times their eyes met, and Eric blushed before burying his nose in his phone again. Jack—he'd never had any doubts about how Eric felt about him and George was adamant that the team would go to bat for Jack and—well, maybe he _could_ do this.

George was gone by the time the photographer finished, so it was just the two of them in the locker room. Jack paused before asking:

"Hey Bittle—Eric, you want to skate for a bit?"

This—it would all be easier for Jack to talk about on the ice.

"I—I guess, but I don't have skates," Eric shrugged.

"Marky's skates are still here. I think they'll fit," Jack replied; he knew both their sizes because—well, he wasn't sure why. He just did.

They made their way back out to the ice and began skating lazy laps around.

"Jack?" Eric said after a while.

"Yeah?"

"Why did this happen to me—us?" Eric asked, observing Jack with his brown eyes wide while he skated backwards (a skill Jack always envied).

"I—have you ever heard of Cup wishes?" Jack questioned, slowing down and stopping to lean up against the boards.

"Yeah, but I thought they were just a legend," Eric answered, skating back over to stand in front of Jack.

"I did too," Jack took a deep breath before speaking again. "But they're—they're not. They're real."

"How do you know?"

"Because I made one. And—well as you probably can guess—it came true," Jack closed his eyes and waited for Eric's reply.

"I—you wished for this?" Eric inquired quietly.

"No! Well, not really," Jack answered quickly, opening his eyes and moving just a little bit closer to Eric. "I just—I wanted you there to celebrate winning the Cup. And then I thought about how I always wanted you there—so you'd always be there to celebrate big moments with me. And I—I guess it thought I was wishing for that too."

"Why would you want that?"

"Because I—you're—I want—"

Jack couldn't find the words to say what he wanted to, so instead he leaned forward slowly, putting a hand on Eric's cheek. Eric's eyes fluttered shut and he tilted in slightly, so Jack kissed him. Eric's lips were soft, with a faint hint of vanilla and cinnamon lingering on them. Eric curled his hand around the back of Jack's neck, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss, while wrapping his other arm around Jack's waist to keep himself upright.

"Oh. That—that makes sense," he said breathlessly when they finally pulled apart.

" _Oh. That makes sense_ ," Jack repeated, laughing. Eric pouted, smacking Jack on the shoulder gently.

"You big, emotionally-stilted hockey dork," Eric admonished fondly. "You know you could've just told me. You didn't need to wish for this."

"I—well I was scared to," Jack admitted bashfully. "I wasn't sure if you'd be okay with dating someone who wasn't out."

"I've wanted this for a long time Jack. I don't care what I have to do to have you," Eric said, grabbing Jack's and squeezing it gently.

"George said that the team is ready, if I want to. I mean, I wouldn't do it tomorrow but—soon. I think once we're seen everywhere—together—people are going to talk."

"Yeah, I guess they are," Eric chuckled. "But that's okay."

* * *

 ** _*Epilogue*_**

Jack woke up the next morning with Eric draped over his back, snoring softly into his shoulder. He was very comfortable, except that he needed to pee.

"Eric," Jack mumbled, jostling him slightly.

"M'sleepin' Jack," Eric whined.

"I know, but I need to pee," Jack whispered.

"Go by yourself," Eric replied sleepily. Jack rolled his eyes, but he figured at least he'd try. Jack carefully rolled Eric off his back (to brief grumbling), and wandered to the door. To his surprise, he was able to go out of it.

"The wall's gone," Jack tossed over his shoulder. He guessed now that they'd talked about their feelings, they didn't need something like an invisible force field to keep them together, they'd do that on their own.

"Good," Eric murmured. "I'm still not leaving."

"I wasn't going to ask you to," Jack smiled, going to the bathroom before he curled up in bed with Eric again.

* * *

 **Notes:**

 _BTW, Shitty finds out about everything the next day, and definitely rubs it in Jack's face that he was right about Cup wishes (this is, after he has a freakout over Jack actually telling Bitty how he felt about him)._


	5. The Canadian vs The Fourth of July

**Summary:** _His mama didn't mean anything by it, inviting Jack to come to Georgia for the 4th of July. She didn't know about his feelings for Jack or that he was trying to use this summer to put some kind of emotional distance between them. But all the same, he couldn't help feeling irritated with her when he opened their front door to a pleased-looking Jack Zimmermann._

* * *

 **Notes:**

 _This fic was born out of this prompt from one of my Tumblr besties, cakemakethmycroft: So jack visits Bitty for 4th of July right, and the Bittles decide to play a bit of football and Jack joins in much to Bitty's dismay (because a boy can only take so much) and Jack is either good?bad? needs bitty help with a few pointers? etc._

 _I took that, and created this fic. The prompt was key to making this happen lol, so thanks 3_

 _Just a heads up, some of the text might come across as a little rambly, and that's totally on purpose, because that's how I imagine Bitty's thoughts are a lot of the time._

 _Originally posted on AO3 and Tumblr on February 5, 2016_

* * *

His mama didn't mean anything by it, inviting Jack to come to Georgia for the 4th of July. She didn't know about his feelings for Jack or that he was trying to use this summer to put some kind of emotional distance between them. But all the same, he couldn't help feeling irritated with her when he opened their front door to a pleased-looking Jack Zimmermann.

"Hi Bittle," he says, with that lopsided grin that Eric loves so much painting the corner of his mouth.

"Hey Jack," Eric replies, his mouth feeling a little dry because _goodness_ , that NHL training regimen has been doing wonders for Jack's already incredible physique. Jack is also sweating, a light sheen covering his forehead. _Poor Canadian boy, not used to the Georgia heat_ , Eric snickers to himself.

"Oh where are my manners, come in," he continues. "You must be dyin' out there."

Jack wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his _long-sleeve_ shirt (that poor, misguided Canadian boy) and scratches the back of his neck. "Eh, it's not too bad."

"It's only morning," Eric smirks. "It'll be gettin' much hotter."

Jack shrugs, and Eric pretends he doesn't see the hint of a frown that flashes across Jack's face. Eric wants to launch himself at Jack and hug him, because he hasn't seen him since graduation, but he's trying to keep boundaries for himself with Jack over this visit, so he settles for an awkward wave. His hand slaps on his thigh a little too hard, and he grimaces while Jack simply looks confused.

"Dicky, honey, is that Jack?" his mama calls from the kitchen.

"Dicky?" Jack asks, and Eric groans, because _oh boy_ , here come the chirps.

"Mamaaaa!" Eric whines, stomping into the kitchen with Jack following close behind. "What did I tell you about callin' me that while Jack's here?"

"Now sweetheart, I've been callin' you Dicky for years," his mom chides, putting her hands on her hips. "You can't expect me to go changin' that 'cause Jack's here."

"Maaaamaaaa," he gripes, something she ignores in favor of greeting Jack.

"Jack, dear, it's lovely to see you. I'm so pleased you could make it," she smiles, reaching up and pulling Jack down into a hug, which Jack doesn't hesitate to return.

"It's nice to see you too Mrs. Bittle. I'm happy to be here," Jack says, and his mama rolls her eyes, smacking Jack with a spatula the way Eric has sometimes before.

"Honey, what did I tell you? Call me Suzanne please."

Jack nods and Suzanne smiles.

"Now I imagine you must be tuckered out from your flight. Di—I mean, _Eric_ will show you where you'll be stayin'," she responds, turning back to the stove top.

"I'm really not—" Jack begins to say and Eric shakes his head, so Jack stops. He's not about to stand here and watch a stand-off between Jack's Canadian politeness and his mama's southern hospitality. He grabs Jack's bag from his shoulder and slings it over his own, knowing that his mama would kill him if he didn't at least try to carry it for Jack. Jack looks amused as he follows Eric up the stairs to his childhood bedroom.

There's an air mattress he's already taken the liberty of spreading out on the floor (it isn't inflated yet, because it would be flat by the evening). He drops Jack's bag on the bed and turns around.

"Now you'll be sleepin' on the bed," he says sternly, pointing at Jack to emphasize his point. "I'll be sleepin' on the air mattress, and this ain't somethin' up for discussion, Mr. Zimmermann."

"Oh it _ain't_ , eh?"

"No it _ain't_ , _eh_?" Eric replies, chirping Jack right back. "Mama would be mortified if you slept on that. She'd rather give up her and Coach's bed before you had to be the one to sleep on the air mattress!"

"Okay," Jack says, after opening and closing his mouth a few times while considering whether to argue.

And then they're standing there in silence, Eric awkwardly watching Jack as Jack looks around at the bits and pieces of Eric's childhood that are scattered around the room. Eventually his eyes fall on the prominently displayed shelf that still holds all of Eric's figure skating trophies. He steps over, regarding each one carefully.

"You were really good," he says quietly.

"I had my moments," Eric murmurs, ducking his head and flushing brightly.

"No really," Jack corrects, stopping at the photo of Eric at 2011 Southern Junior Championships. "You were great. Why did you stop?"

"I—I guess I got tired of wearin' a huge target on my back, you know?" Eric sighs, picking up the medal he won at the SJC; the last medal he ever won for his figure skating.

Jack quirks an eyebrow up questioningly.

"Maybe at Samwell, people like me are normal and accepted, but down here, I'm really different and figure skating was just another thing that set me apart and so...I got picked on for that. And it just got to be too much," Eric shrugs, because he really doesn't want to go and dredge all this back up. "Sure I was good, but I don't regret anythin' about pickin' hockey over skating." Because he got to go to Samwell. Because he got to be open about who he was. Because he made so many great friends. Because he met Jack.

Jack gazes at him, and his expression is so soft and open. "I'd still like to see you skate some time. But—yeah I'm—I'm glad you picked hockey too."

And _Lord_ , Eric's heart is just a puddle pooling at the bottom of his stomach under the intensity of Jack's eyes; the things this boy does to him without even realizing it. There's just so much behind his words that Eric wants to be there, but it's Jack, and he knows it isn't there, so rather than doing something stupid, like going up on his tiptoes and kissing Jack like he wants to, he sets the medal down and bolts from his room, pretending that his mama called him. Jack's only here for three days; Eric would like to think that he can make it that long without colossally screwing everything up between him and Jack.

* * *

Eric hangs out with Jack the rest of the day while carefully working to keep his guard up. He's spent years hiding and suppressing things, but with Jack it's just so hard and Eric isn't even sure why—okay, actually, he does, because his mama is taken with Jack, just like she has been since they first met after the Yale game, and Coach takes to Jack like a duck to water. Eric really shouldn't be surprised; Jack has the ability to be quite charming, it's just too often hidden under all his layers of awkwardness; he's had a firsthand view of that for the last year, and Jack might be the most charming of all around Eric, and _dear Lord_ , all this isn't helping him in the least.

The next day is the 4th and all the Bittles are coming over, so Eric plants himself in the kitchen and gets to work baking pies. He apologizes to Jack, who just smiles and goes to mingle with his family, tossing a chirp about baking too much over his shoulder.

He doesn't see Jack again until late-afternoon when every sits down at picnic tables set up in the backyard to eat. It's sweltering hot, with temperatures approaching 100°F, and Jack looks like he's about to melt from the heat, something all the Bittles decide to chirp him for.

"Now I get why you're always cold," Jack mutters, sitting down with a plate of food next to Eric, once he finally escapes the chirps. "It's so fucking _hot_ here."

"Exactly," Eric laughs and pulls out his phone (belatedly realizing Jack just said fuck and is too late to chirp him for that), taking a picture of Jack, face flushed and covered in sweat. He's taking it to send to Jack the next time he chirps him about being cold ( _not_ because Jack looks hot in the figurative sense). "Next time you try and chirp me, I'll just send you this to remind you."

Jack peers at the photo and shakes his head with a slight grin playing across his lips. "It looks like I just came off the ice after suicides."

"C'mon, suicides ain't that bad!"

"Wanna know a secret? I hate them," Jack whispers, and Eric lights up. There's actually a hockey drill that Jack hates! This is monumental news, honestly. Eric takes his phone out, prepared to disseminate this new information to the group chat when Jack takes a drink out of the cup he brought with him and puckers up his face.

Eric pauses and glances in the cup and chuckles. "Sweet tea not really doin' it for you?"

"Uh, no? It's fine I just—it's so _sweet_ ," Jack stammers, and _bless his heart_ , he obviously doesn't like it but won't say so because this boy is just so damn Canadian!

"Goodness honey, I would've never guessed, considering it's called sweet tea," Eric chirps, trying to not giggle as he puts a hand on Jack's bicep.

Jack scowls for all of two seconds before he breaks out into a grin. "Alright Bittle, you got me there. But no, it was—okay, I just wasn't ready for it to have as much sugar in it as a slice of your pecan pie."

At that, every head in the vicinity shoots up and turns to look at Jack (minus his mama, who's staring at her plate and trying not to laugh), and Jack jumps in surprise.

"What did you say boy?" one of his uncles asks Jack at the same time Jack asks Eric: "What did I say?"

Eric glances knowingly at Jack, and Jack is flushing darker as he mumbles: "Uh, pecan?"

If Jack thought the chirping about the temperature was bad, then he was unprepared for the entire Bittle family to chirp him for his pronunciation of "pecan". And Eric would feel bad, if they hadn't had this conversation in the kitchen of the Haus at least ten times over the last year, and if Jack wasn't bearing the brunt of the chirping he normally received at a family gathering. He'd apologize to Jack about this later.

Jack took it good-naturedly, even dishing back his fair share of chirps, and Eric would be lying if he said that he wasn't surprised by how at ease Jack was with his whole family. There were a lot of them, and Jack was certainly the center of attention (which Eric expected to be disconcerting to Jack), being the only non-Bittle who's been to a family event in at least ten years. But he was taking it well and—Eric was trying not to picture Jack at future family get-togethers, and was failing miserably.

* * *

Once they were done eating, Eric sets to work clearing the dishes and laying out his desserts. He turns to Jack to ask if he wants to help (mostly for the purpose of giving him a break from the Bittles), but Coach is already tapping Jack's shoulder.

"Jack, you want to join the football game?"

The 4th of July touch football game was a Bittle tradition, ever since Eric was a small boy. Eric always begged out of it, because the game was rough, even though it was always two-hand touch. And despite the fact that contact didn't bother Eric as much anymore (thanks to Jack), he still didn't have interest in playing.

"Sure," Jack shrugs.

"You know how to play football?" Eric asks, shaking his head gently because—Jack is Canadian and Canadians don't have football and goodness, honey _no_ , the CFL does not count as football.

"No, but I'm sure it can't be that hard. I am an athlete, aren't I?" Jack replies, and walks off after Coach.

"Mama," Eric says, a smirk on his face. "Mama, take care of this. I have to watch Jack try and play football."

"Oh Lord help that boy," she responds, grabbing the stack of plates Eric has already gathered. Eric jogs over to the makeshift field, phone at the ready because, boy, are there going to be opportunities for videos that the guys will never forgive Eric if he doesn't get any to share.

And he's right, because the look on Jack's face after Coach breaks the huddle for the first time is priceless. He looks completely lost, frozen to the spot. Probably because the Bittle 4th of July Football Game isn't your normal backyard, sandlot affair, because his dad is a high school head football coach so _yes_ , there is playbook and _yes_ , everyone is expected to know it.

Coach walks over to Jack and taps him on the shoulder, whispering something in his ear which makes the furrow in Jack's brow grow deeper and Lord, Eric is going to have to go out there and help Jack, because he has to have Jack's back. He's not going to let him look like a fool in front of his whole family.

Eric signals for a timeout and jogs up to Jack immediately.

"Junior?" Coach says, clearly shocked by his appearance on the field.

"Someone has to translate football speak for Jack," he shrugs, and he can see Jack's shoulders drop a good four inches and a smile spread across his face. "What's the play?"

(Yes, Eric knows the playbook, because it's the same one Coach uses for his high school team and until Eric took up hockey his junior year, Coach continued to entertain delusions of Eric becoming a football player and taught him the entire playbook.)

"Jets Sweep left," Coach replies.

"Really, on the first play Coach?" Eric questions. A "Jets Sweep" is a low-percentage trick play. Not the sort of play you'd run at the very beginning of the game.

"Just tryin' to catch 'em off guard Junior."

"I don't think that's a good idea but, fine, movin' on. So Jack's position?"

"Wide receiver."

"Right, cause he's one of the tallest people here. Is he taking the handoff or blocking?"

"I guess if you're going to play, he'll block."

Right, Eric is definitely the fastest person here, something that carries over from on the ice. Which means Coach'll try to get him the ball as much as possible—at least that makes explaining what Jack has to do easier.

"Okay then," Eric nods and then turns to Jack. "Jack, you're going to line up to left. Make sure you stay behind where the ball is. When Coach gets the ball, your job is to block whoever is right in front of you. Just—" Eric puts his hands on Jack's chest to demonstrate, ignoring the firmness underneath his fingertips. "Put your hands right there and try to keep them in front of you."

"Got it," Jack acknowledges and his expression is intense; now that he knows what he's doing, Jack is slipping right into his competitive mode.

They line up, and the ball is snapped. Coach turns around and hands it right off to Eric who was coming up behind him in motion, and Jack—well, he muffs the block and Eric gets shoved harshly before he can get any yards.

"Sorry. I'll do better next time," Jack mutters, pulling Eric to his feet and patting him on the shoulder. And that's why Eric wouldn't have suggested having Jack play; he knows Jack well enough to know that he's competitive and will take it too hard if he's not very good.

"Relax Jack, it's just for fun. Ain't no reason to get upset," Eric tries to reassure Jack as he herds him back to the huddle. And so he tells Jack every time he makes a mistake; he doesn't want Jack being too hard on himself over a backyard football game.

Jack isn't all that good at football, but he's better than most of the Bittles, mostly because of his sheer athletic talent. Coach tweaks his bum knee towards the middle of the game and puts Eric at quarterback, but he still calls the plays from the sidelines. Eric's throwing arm isn't great, but he and Jack still have the same chemistry out on the field as they do on the ice, plus Jack is taller than everyone playing cornerback, so he's just throwing it to Jack and they're lighting it up.

But their defense isn't very good (why Coach puts his cousin Addison at corner baffles Eric; Addison might be 6'3", but he's clumsier than Nursey and can't run, so whoever he's covering is open on _every play_ ), so when they're given the "one more drive" signal by his mama, they're down by 3 (because yes, they do field goals in this too). Coach motions for him to come over to get the play, but Eric ignores him.

"Jack."

"Hmm?"

"Just—go long," Eric says, and he knows that Coach is yelling at him because he's totally going sandlot, but he doesn't care. This is going to work.

They line up and snap the ball, and Jack takes off on a dead sprint straight up the field. Eric holds the ball for a few seconds and then lets it fly. It's about the best pass Eric's thrown in his life and it lands directly into Jack's out-stretched arms in the end zone. Eric pumps his fist, and Coach is shaking his head, but he's also grinning.

Eric sprints down to where Jack is and tackles him for a celly. He knows this is football and that just doesn't happen in football, but Jack plays hockey and he's going to understand a celly better than everyone going up to him and slapping him on the back. Eric's younger cousins follow suit, and suddenly there's just a bunch of them rolling around in the grass, and Jack is ruffling Eric's hair and grinning and it's perfect.

They're standing around after, eating pie (Jack is having the maple apple, and _hush_ , he didn't make it just because Jack is here), and Coach gives Jack a hard smack on the back.

"I'm thinkin' we may need to get you a copy of the playbook," Coach grins. "Just think how well you'll play next time around when you actually know what to do."

Eric really wants to tell Coach to shut up. He highly doubts that Jack'll ever have the chance to come to another Bittle get-together, and besides, he doesn't want Jack to feel like he has to.

"Yeah, why not?" Jack answers coolly without hesitation and well, Eric's mouth might be hanging open a little. "Eric might have to help me with it, but I'd definitely like to be more use to you guys next time around."

And—Jack expects to come to something like this again? _What?_

"Oh you were plenty of use," Coach chuckles, slinging an arm around both of them. "You and Junior have a pretty special connection. A bit like Matt Ryan and Roddy White back in the day, hmm?"

 _"Back in the day?!"_ Eric exclaims indignantly, Jack's comments forgotten for the moment. "You say that like it was twenty years ago! They're both still playin' Coach!"

And that's how Eric ends up having a heated discussion with Coach and a few of his uncles about the decline of the Falcons and Dan Quinn's merits as a head coach ("Sure, he was a great coordinator in Seattle, but so was Gus Bradley, and look, the Jaguars are still just languishin'! Who's to say that it won't be the same with Quinn?"), all while Jack just stands quietly next to him, so close their arms brush every time Eric moves. He seems to be listening, holding the same laser focus he always has when he cares about paying attention to something, even though Eric is sure he doesn't understand a word they're saying. And he's probably just imagining it, but it looks as if Jack is smiling a little wider every time Eric gets passionate and animated, waving his hands around as he illustrates his point.

Eventually, they're interrupted because it's getting late, and they have to go if they want a decent spot to watch the fireworks. Jack quietly sticks close to him, and Eric understands; he's probably wiped out after a whole day spent interacting with his big, noisy family. Eric's more than content to just sit wordlessly with Jack while they wait for the fireworks to start. Except...

"You want to do this again?" Eric asks softly. Jack is just his friend and—friends don't just come to friends' family gatherings on a regular basis. That's not a normal thing.

Jack shrugs nonchalantly. "Only if you want me to, eh?"

"Yeah—I mean, yeah I do," Eric replies.

"Good," Jack smiles happily and that's enough for Eric's whole body to feel warm, and it has nothing to do with the Georgia heat. Lord, he's not going to tell Jack he doesn't want him around, because he does; that's kind of Eric's biggest problem. He wants Jack around all the time.

"I just don't—" Eric starts before there's a loud series of pops that interrupts his sentence. Jack watches him like he expects him to continue talking, but having a conversation over the fireworks is frowned upon, so he just shakes his head and points towards the sky. He doesn't even know how he was planning on finishing that sentence anyway.

Jack rests back on his elbows and admires the brilliant flashes of color splashed across the night sky, and Eric finds himself watching Jack more than he watches the fireworks. A few times, Jack catches him, and Eric ducks his head and flushes, and so he misses the soft grins Jack gives him in response.

Jack sits next to him in the car on the way back to his house, squished in the backseat with Addison, and the way they're touching, shoulder all the way down to knee is just a little bit overwhelming to Eric. He was using the distance between them to lessen the intensity of his feelings for Jack, but now Jack is _here_ , and he wants to come here _again_ , and now it feels like Jack's visit has set him back to square one.

They get home, and Eric mumbles a good night to Jack, and despite the heat, he burrows under a mountain of blankets on the air mattress. Goodness, he was _so_ wrong to think he could handle this. At least tomorrow is Jack's last full day in Georgia.

* * *

Jack is already up when Eric wakes up the next morning. Eric blearily stumbles downstairs, but only Coach is in the kitchen. _Jack is probably out for a run_ , Eric thinks.

July 5th is usually a quiet day at the Bittle household, because his parents are usually hungover, and Eric himself is tired from flitting around all day, so they tend to spend the day quietly cleaning up everything left over from the day before. He's not sure how that'll work with Jack here.

Eric pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down at the table with Coach, overcome by just how awkward the silence between them is (even more so than usual).

"Jack seems like a nice boy," Coach says, his voice gruff like it always is.

"Yeah, he really is," Eric agrees, even though "nice" isn't nearly descriptive enough and doesn't really capture Jack at all (plus he really isn't sure where Coach is going with this at all).

"You uh," Coach pauses, scratches his chin, and takes a sip of coffee. "Jack is—you two are—you know—good for you, Junior."

Eric starts choking on his own spit. _"What?!"_

Coach shifts uncomfortably and okay, he probably wasn't expecting that reaction from Eric, but he did just imply him and Jack are—well, _something_ , when Eric didn't even know that Coach knew he was gay and _God_ , he never expected to being having a conversation like this, with _Coach_ , of all people.

"I-I—Jack and I—it's not like that," Eric splutters.

Coach raises an eyebrow questioningly. "You're not exactly subtle, Junior."

"Jack and I are not—I swear!" Eric exclaims, trying not to panic because _shit_ , if Coach could pick up on it, who else knew about how Eric felt about Jack? "He's straight and I'm just—I know it's pathetic and I'm tryin' to get over it but—it ain't easy."

Coach starts guffawing and Eric watches in confusion, because he can't remember the last time he heard Coach laugh this hard.

"You mostly take after your mother but son," Coach pauses, wiping tears from his eyes, "I never would've guessed you inherited my thick skull!"

"What the heck are you talkin' 'bout Coach?" Eric asks, because he can't see what's so funny about this.

"I—man, Junior, that boy has been fixin' to be more obvious than you!" Coach explains. And Coach—well he doesn't _seem_ to be joking, which means he's just way off-base.

"Jack just ain't that good at interactin' with people," Eric defends, because he definitely knows Jack better than Coach seems to think he does. "He don't have a clue that he's doin' those things and he certainly don't mean it that way."

"If you say so," Coach shakes his head, and Eric knows that he doesn't believe him one bit.

"But how did you know? About me?" Eric questions, after a few beats of silence, because that's been nagging him since this conversation started.

"Like I said, you ain't subtle, and I ain't stupid."

"Oh."

"I've always tried to show you that I love you just the same, Junior, but I know I ain't always been so good at it. I hope you know that though; I just want you to be happy," Coach continues, and Eric might want to cry because this was better than any other way he'd imagined coming out to Coach would've gone.

Just then, Jack walks into the kitchen, and freezes in his tracks, probably because Eric failed at holding his tears back and they are many of them streaming down his cheeks.

"I'll just—come back," Jack mumbles, turning around.

"No son, that's quite alright," Coach says, standing up and herding Jack into the kitchen. "I was just leavin'."

Coach exits, and Eric hopes that he isn't giving Jack any strange or suggestive looks. Jack seems only slightly more awkward than usual when he walks over Eric and kneels down next to him, comfortingly putting a hand on his back.

"Eric? Is everything okay?" Jack asks.

Eric sniffs and dabs at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. "Yeah Jack," he replies, giving Jack a smile that he knows looks watery and maybe a little unsteady, but it's genuine all the same. "I just—kinda came out to Coach? Well—I didn't come out so much as he told me he already knew. And it's—yeah, he's good, and I'm just—happy and overwhelmed."

Eric hazards a look over at Jack, and gosh, was that a bad idea, because Jack's expression is softer than Eric's ever seen it before, and he can see the concern deep in his blue eyes and—could Coach have actually been onto something?

"Congratulations," Jack says after studying him for a moment.

"Good mornin' boys," his mama says as she strolls into the kitchen. She stops when she sees him. "Dicky, baby, what's wrong?"

She rushes to his side and Jack quickly withdraws, and Eric tries to not feel bad about wishing Jack was still there instead of him mama.

* * *

Eric ends up taking Jack sightseeing around Madison and Morgan County, because they hadn't yet and Jack is leaving the next morning. They visit all the historic landmarks, because Eric knows that's what Jack will enjoy (and he couldn't care less about what he enjoys; if Jack's enjoying himself, then so is Eric), and Jack brings his camera. While they drive from place to place, Eric plugs his phone in and takes to chirping Jack aggressively over pop culture, and Jack chirps him back about Twitter and being attached to his phone, and it's comfortable, familiar, and a few times, Eric has to swallow around the lump in his throat when he thinks about Jack leaving tomorrow.

But when they're exploring the landmarks, it's quiet, the two of them wandering from place to place, Eric pretending to read the placards, and instead watching Jack as he snaps picture after picture. Jack is just so— _Jack_ as he eagerly takes in the scenery and the history of it all, and Eric is helpless against the thought of the two of them doing this sometime in the future, walking hand in hand as Jack soaks up the history and Eric soaks up—well, Jack, and so he also finds himself desperately wishing Coach was right about Jack, even though Eric is sure he's not.

And well, he doesn't mean to tell Jack about what Coach said, but with all that weighs on Eric's mind all day, and with all the heavy looks his parents give him that afternoon, it just slips out later that evening, when they're both climbing into bed.

"Coach thought we were dating," he blurts out, and then is immediately flooded with regret. It sounds like Jack is continuing to get settled in bed, quiet for a few seconds too long, and out of necessity, Eric begins word vomiting. "And I told him he was just bein' ridiculous because you're clearly straight and anythin' he thought he was seein' was just—well you bein' awkward I guess which he thought was hysterical—"

Eric keeps mumbling nonsensical things as he smashes his face into his pillow, embarrassed beyond belief that those things just came tumbling from his mouth.

"Eric," Jack says, and that's the second time today he's called him Eric and not Bittle. Eric reluctantly sits up, and even though the room is dark, and Jack's face is just a silhouette in the moonlight streaming through the window, Eric can pick up enough of Jack's expression to make his stomach do anxious somersaults.

"I'm not— _straight_ ," Jack continues quietly, so soft that Eric can barely hear him, and he doesn't, not really, because then Jack leans in and kisses him, and he can't hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears.

He kisses back earnestly, leaning into Jack, and Jack puts his arms around his middle and pulls their chests' flush. Eric clings to Jack, trying to keep up, trying not to pass out or die because _Jack is kissing him_ and it's everything he'd been dreaming of for months, and more.

It's hot and heavy, and maybe just a bit too much for Eric, and he pulls back, resting his forehead on Jack's and panting.

"You didn't know?" Jack inquires.

"I—no! You didn't say anything! How was I supposed to know?" Eric whispers intensely, trying to be careful not to disturb his parents.

"I was dropping all kinds of hints, eh?" Jack answers, and Eric can hear the grin in his voice.

"You were _not_ ," Eric murmurs accusatorily.

"Yes I was! You should've seen your family yesterday, they spent most of the day rolling their eyes at me," Jack retorts, standing up and pulling Eric onto the bed. "I volunteered to play football even though I didn't know how, Eric"

"You were tryin' to impress Coach?"

"And you."

"Huh," Eric hums and snuggles up into Jack's side, and okay, that puts a lot of Jack's actions into perspective, like Jack smiling a lot more and making comments about wanting to come to the next Bittle gathering. "I guess Coach was right."

"Your dad is a lot more observant than you give him credit for."

Eric hums again in agreement, and his eyes start to droop closed, because today has been surprisingly stressful and Jack's shoulder makes for a shockingly comfortable pillow.

"Eric," Jack says, shaking him gently.

"Jaaaack, I want to sleep," Eric whines, burrowing his head deeper in Jack's chest.

"Eric," Jack continues insistently, and maybe he's just crazy tired, but he's absolutely _loving_ the way his name sounds dripping off of Jack's tongue. "We need to talk first."

Eric immediately starts to shift so that he's sitting up, and his heart has decided to take up residence in his throat while beating at what feels like a thousand beats per second, because maybe Jack has already changed his mind and _God_ , that would just tear him apart. Jack's arm wraps around him and gently pulls him back down.

"It's okay Eric I just—I'm not ready to be out yet so—I just wanted to be clear on who we can tell," Jack explains, soothingly stroking Eric's hair, and Eric has the sudden urge to purr like a cat because Jack's hands are so big but so gentle and—wow, okay he is actually purring and Jack is giving him a dopey grin.

"We can tell the team, and your parents, and we'll tell my parents, but that's it for now, eh?" Jack continues, and Eric nods, because that sounds about right. Those are really the only people he wants to tell anyway. "Okay, that's all I wanted to say."

"Night Jack," Eric yawns and closes his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.

* * *

They come downstairs at the same time the next morning, and Eric's parents are already up and eating breakfast, which is convenient, because they wanted to tell them together this morning, before they have to leave for the airport.

They both get coffee and sit down, and Jack grabs his hand under the table. Eric takes a deep breath and just says it.

"Jack and I are datin'."

Coach smirks and turns to his mama. "I told you, dear."

"Now just a minute," his mama interjects, wagging her finger at Coach. "For how long?"

"Uh—we just decided to, you know, start datin' last night," Eric continues, blushing darkly.

"And I told _you_ , dear," she chuckles, and Coach grumbles and pulls out his wallet, and my _God_ , his parents were _betting_ on them.

Jack is laughing like this is the funniest thing he's ever seen, and Eric is mortified, but he has the presence of mind to turn Jack and say: "Don't laugh, I bet your parents will say somethin' similar."

Jack's mouth snaps shut.

(At the same time this is happening, their phones are blowing up, because they texted the group chat before coming downstairs.

 **Shitty:** Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you beautiful, emotionally-repressed hockey robot, I'm so proud of you!

 **Holster:** Congratulations on finally getting ur shit together :)

 **Chowder:** !

 **Chowder:** :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D

 **Ransom:** That just leaves a certain two people *cough*frogs*cough* on the team with unresolved...tension ;)

 **Holster:** I'm betting it's sexual

 **Ransom:** You want to bet on that?

 **Holster:** Only bc I know I'm right

 **Dex:** Shut the fuck up

 **Nursey:** Chill Poindexter

From there, the chat dissolved into an argument between Nursey and Dex, with Ransom egging them on and Chowder sending multiple sad faces (and yes, it was sexual tension, as they all found out a few weeks later).

)

* * *

 **Notes:**

 _Shush, I know Dan Quinn managed to prove his competency as a HC this season and the Jaguars have started improving (though I put more of that on Blake Bortles than I do Gus Bradley but that's a different story), but this took place in the summer of 2015, so the characters didn't know any of that yet._

 _Also, I have since learned and come to realize that parents betting on their kids sexualities/relationships is very not cool and while I'm not removing it from this fic, I do regret putting in there in the first place._


	6. Let Me Tell You That I Love You

**Summary:** Something doesn't feel quite right to Jack as Bittle walks away (he thinks his ears catch a sniffle from Bittle as he leaves). There's a heaviness that's settled in his chest and a hollow feeling in his stomach. He feels unsteady, off-balance, and he doesn't like it. It's a feeling that sticks with him as he says the rest of his goodbyes and all through the alumni event. He doesn't even know why it's there.

* * *

 **Notes:**

 _Not beta-ed, so apologies for any mistakes._

 _Title from_ Caledonia _(I listen to the Celtic Woman version). I know it's a strange song to get a title from, but I think it works, don't you?_

 _This is my best guess, or maybe more like my ideal vision of how Friday's comic will go :)_

 _Originally published on AO3 and Tumblr on February 25, 2016_

* * *

"Hah. See you, Bittle," Jack says as Bittle turns and shuffles off.

Something doesn't feel quite right to Jack as Bittle walks away (he thinks his ears catch a sniffle from Bittle as he leaves). There's a heaviness that's settled in his chest and a hollow feeling in his stomach. He feels unsteady, off-balance, and he doesn't like it. It's a feeling that sticks with him as he says the rest of his goodbyes and all through the alumni event. He doesn't even know why it's there.

"Those alumni events get longer every year!" his dad exclaims, sounding good-naturedly exasperated. "Ready to head back to the hotel?"

He should be, and yet he's not. The sinking feeling in his gut keeps gnawing at him, like he's forgotten something important—like maybe he should be going to some place other than his hotel.

"Yeah almost," he replies hesitantly. His dad glances at him questioningly. "I just uh...I feel like...I haven't said goodbye to everyone," he stutters over his explanation. It's as close as he can get to actually describing the feeling.

"Well, it's a bit too late to take another lap around the rink!" Bob teases. But...that's not even close.

"No...not that," Jack responds quietly.

"Ah," Bob sighs, gently putting a hand on his shoulder.

"You know, your uncle always says 'You miss 100% of the shots you don't take'," he continues, switching to Québécois.

"What do you mean?" Jack asks, because yeah, he's heard Uncle Wayne's signature phrase more times than he can count, but he doesn't know what that has to do with this.

"I mean. _Go say goodbye_. You won't be back here for some time, you know?" he explains, and something about what he's saying is starting to click. There's a picture forming in Jack's mind, but it's still too fuzzy to make out clearly. "If that's what your heart is telling you, you should go. _Go really say goodbye_."

The carillon bells begin tolling off in the distance, ringing with a sense poetic timing and justice as it dawns on Jack.

 _Bitty._

"...oh," he utters softly. There aren't words to encapsulate the rush of swirling thoughts suddenly assaulting him. And even if there were, Jack would never find the right ones. Rather than try, he simply tells his dad "Uh, I'll be back," and takes off running.

He pumps his legs, feet slamming on the pavement as he pushes off, propelling himself into a dead sprint. Samwell's campus is too vast, the Haus is too far away, and Bitty's shuttle is leaving too soon; he can't fight off the feeling that no matter how fast he runs, he'll never make it in time.

So he pushes harder, digging deeper and running faster, until his calves ache and his lungs burn like they're on fire. Sweat pours down his face and he's wheezing with every breath he takes, but he keeps going because he _has_ to. He _has_ to catch Bitty in time.

Finally, just as it feels like he's going to collapse, like his legs are going to give out from underneath him, the Haus is in sight. Bitty is still there, sitting up in the reading room, knees drawn up into his chest and his face buried in them. Even with his face hidden, there are quiet little hiccups that float out on the air to Jack.

Jack doesn't slow, not as he bursts through the front door, not as he bounds up the stairs, not even as he tumbles through the window into the reading room. Bitty looks up at the commotion, and he's visibly startled to see Jack there.

"J-Jack!" he splutters. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, his cheeks splotchy, and there are tears still falling from his eyes, clinging to his lashes and cheekbones. "Wh-what are you doin' here?" he questions after a few long seconds of stunned silence.

Jack collapses on the roof, taking heaving breaths, winded from his long run.

"I uh—"

It's at this moment that Jack realizes he doesn't have a game plan. He always rehearses what he has to say in critical moments. And instead, he's walked into a crucial situation without any preparation. He doesn't know what to say and— _tabarnak_ , the fear that he might say the wrong thing is making his heart race.

"I just," Jack starts, then stops. He pauses for a long minute.

"You—," Jack tries again, but he has no more words than he did before and _merde_ , he's fucking this up so terribly.

"It just...feels like...I didn't really say goodbye?" he finally gets out. It comes out sounding like a question, and it's ambiguous and unenlightening. Bitty is confused, and Jack doesn't blame him. He's a little befuddled himself; how can he be so horrible at expressing something that's so crystal clear to him?

"What do you mean?" Bitty inquires, softly, slowly, _cautiously_ , echoing the question Jack had asked his dad mere minutes ago when he didn't understand.

Jack sighs, his breaths still coming in unsteady gasps, but it's not because of his long sprint. It's his anxiety making it hard to breathe. He doesn't know how to say what he wants to say, and his hands are shaking because he can't let this moment pass him by, he knows he has to find some way to say it. Bitty isn't reading him, doesn't automatically know what he's trying to communicate like he usually does, so he has to come up with the words _somehow_.

"Um...on the ice we—we were something really special," Jack says, because hockey—that's what he knows. Hockey is the one subject about which words never fail to come to him.

And there's so much meaning behind the words for Jack. They were something really, _really_ special, because, as the coaches so graciously pointed out to him in his junior year, Bitty made him a better hockey player.

"Yeah," Bitty answers. "You—you already said that."

"I know. But—I don't think—it wasn't just about hockey," Jack remarks and okay, he's getting warmer. He has Bitty's attention, he's listening carefully, but Bitty's face doesn't suggest his words have brought him any greater clarity.

"You—you make me better," Jack says, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to relieve his anxiety. "Not just my hockey...every part of me. That's something...it doesn't come around every day."

Jack exhales softly. It's—that's still not enough. It's still not close to describing the sense of...emptiness that comes to Jack when he thinks about the prospect of going to Providence and leaving Bitty behind.

But Bitty seems to be catching on, because his eyes have gone wide, shimmering with newly formed tears as his mouth hangs open.

"What—what are you sayin'?" he says. It's quiet, almost a whisper.

As he looking into the vastness of Bitty's dark brown eyes, eyes that he's been getting lost in before he even realized he was losing himself in them, Jack knows that words will never be adequate. The entirety of English and Québécois doesn't have enough letters, enough numbers, enough characters, enough words to describe it all.

So he gives up. He gives up on trying to speak and scoots closer to Bitty, gently cupping the side of his face with his hand. Bitty seems shocked, but he doesn't run. He doesn't turn away. He leans into the touch, and Jack—he does something he hasn't done since before his overdose; he doesn't think, he simply acts.

He leans over and presses his lips gently to Bitty's. Bitty sighs, and everything feels like it's spinning to Jack, but that's probably just because his entire world has shifted on its axis, a certain four letter "L" word beginning to suddenly bounce around his skull.

The kiss isn't long, merely a few brief seconds. It's short, soft, and chaste, but nothing has ever felt quite this right to Jack before.

Bitty pulls back, only to bury his face into Jack's shoulder, his entire body shaking gently as he cries into the silky fabric of Jack's graduation gown. Jack puts his arms around him, and well, he doesn't know why Bitty is crying, but his brain is too jumbled up to string together the words to ask.

He's not crying for long, and he tilts his face up to Jack's, gazing up at him with those dark chocolate brown eyes that Jack never wants to look away from.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cry, I just—I didn't think you'd ever feel the same way I do," Bitty whispers.

Until fifteen minutes ago, Jack didn't even know that was a possibility. So Jack nods, swallowing around his heart that's taken up residence in his throat. And he doesn't know exactly how Bitty feels, but he's pretty sure he feels the same.

"I do, eh?" he mumbles.

Bitty giggles wetly, because there are still tears streaming from his eyes. "You giant Canadian oaf, only you would wait until the last second to tell me."

Jack grins and ducks his head. "My dad—he reminded me of something Uncle Wayne said and—he made me realize."

"This boy," Bitty scoffs fondly. "'Uncle Wayne' he says. Casually callin' the best hockey player of all time, Wayne Gretzky, his uncle like it's no big deal. What am I goin' to do with you?"

"I don't know," Jack chuckles, squeezing Bitty's shoulders affectionately. "But I wouldn't tell my dad you called Uncle Wayne the best hockey player of all time."

"Oh _please_ Jack, even Bad Bob would admit he's the best player of all time. It ain't somethin' up for dispute!" Bitty squawks indignantly.

Jack smiles and laughs just as Bitty's shuttle pulls up to the Haus and honks.

"I guess I probably should go," Bitty murmurs, clinging onto Jack tightly.

Jack nods. Bitty squeaks as Jack pulls him to his feet, gently pushing him towards the window.

"Alright, alright, I'm goin'," Bitty shakes his head as he climbs through the window frame. He grabs his suitcase from his room and they trudge down the stairs, not quite ready to leave each other's company now that they've had their moment of epiphany.

Jack gently cups Bitty's face, bending down to kiss him. "Here's my real goodbye," he says, softly and full of more fondness and emotion that even he knew he was capable of.

Bitty's face lights up brightly, and there's a feeling bubbling up in him, pushing three words up into his mouth. Jack can't help saying it.

"I love you."

Twenty minutes. That's how long he's known about his feelings for Bitty. He's never told anyone besides his parents that he loves them. It's a big moment, but it's the most natural thing. Later, when he has the chance to think over the last few months, he'll realize it feels right because he's been in love for far longer than he knew he was. But for now, he doesn't care why it does, he just knows that it feels right.

Bitty stands up on his tiptoes, softly pressing his lips to Jack's. "I love you too," he replies.

Bitty's shuttle honks, and he playfully swats at Jack. "You're goin' to make me late again."

"Go," Jack chortles and smiles, pushing Bitty out the door.

He takes a few steps to the car before he stops and turns. "Hey, you doin' anythin' for the 4th of July?"

Jack doesn't even stop to think about his answer. "No."

The grin on Bitty's face is the biggest Jack has ever seen it, and he returns it with one of his own. "You want to come to Georgia?"

"Yeah," Jack answers, enjoying the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest.

The driver honks again impatiently.

"Okay, _okay_ ," Bitty yells over his shoulder, groaning. "Talk about it later?"

"Definitely," Jack says, standing on the porch as Bitty loads up his suitcase. He looks back over at Jack, and then jogs up just as the driver yells "C'mon kid, you want to make your flight or not?"

Bitty gives Jack one more kiss, and then climbs into the car. Jack watches the car until it's out of sight, a blush high on his cheeks and a goofy smile on his face.

He walks back to the Lake quad where his mom and dad stand, the only ones left waiting as the clean-up crew bustles around them. His dad gives him a look and Jack flushes.

"I'm proud of you son," he says, hugging Jack tightly.

"Thanks," Jack mumbles as his mom pulls him into her own hug.

"Now, when will you be inviting Eric to come to Montreal?" she asks, and Jack groans, even though he's still smiling, because both his parents are unbelievable.


End file.
